


Loneliness

by rahleeyah



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-01-21 14:43:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 63,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12459930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahleeyah/pseuds/rahleeyah
Summary: On a quiet night, Lucien discovers just how lonely Jean has been, and decides to do something about it. Set vaguely around the end of 1.6.





	1. Chapter 1

He found her in the garden. Quite by accident; it wasn't as if he'd gone strolling out into the night in search of his wayward housekeeper. In truth, he'd believed her to be fast asleep, tucked up safe and sound in her bedroom where she belonged. When Jean Beazley said she was going to do something she bloody well did it, and she'd told him she was off to bed hours before. And yet here she sat before him, blissfully unaware of his presence, her skin softly glowing by the light of the stars. It was a night for surprises, he supposed.

For a moment he indulged in watching her, this strange, fierce creature he had inherited along with his father's house. When he first met her, she had brought to mind the vision of a little bird trapped in a cage, singing merrily while the sun rose high overhead, and all who heard her remarking  _isn't it a lovely song,_ unable to understand the lament her heart poured out to them. There was something wild about her eyes, sometimes, the way she'd scan a room searching for an exit, the way her shoulders would sag, infinitesimally, when she realized there was no escape. At the moment she was relaxed, however, unfettered by anyone's expectations. She was seated on a gingham blanket spread smoothly over the grass, her long legs bare and stretching out before her, delicately crossed at the ankles. Her demure - if distractingly tight - skirt was pulled down over her knees, her blouse straining enticingly across her breasts as she reclined on her elbows, her eyes closed and her face turned up towards the stars as if she were sunbathing. It had not escaped his attention that she was a beautiful woman, despite her sorrow. Or perhaps, he thought as he approached her, because of it, because of her strength, her resilience, her determination that she would not be ruled by heartbreak, even if she could not banish it.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked her softly as he reached the edge of her blanket.

Beneath him Jean startled, her eyes flying open at once and fixing him with a wary, steely grey stare. Those eyes; they haunted him, in the still of the night, when he'd drunk enough to be overcome with longing and yet not enough to quiet the demons that dogged his steps. Each time she looked at him, he recalled his school days, ungratefully reading the classics under his tutor's watchful eye, and he could not help but think of the grey-eyed goddess Athena, her might and her power and her beauty. Jean would have laughed in his face, he knew, should he mention such a thing to her, but he thought it nonetheless.

"No," she answered, clearing her throat primly and sitting up a little straighter, running a hand over her curls in what was almost certainly a subconscious gesture. Though she was perhaps the most independent woman he had ever known Jean had learned long ago what was expected of her, how to play the game in order to satisfy her own needs, and she was always immaculately dressed and pressed and armed for battle. He wanted to tell her not to fuss, wanted to tell her that she was beautiful, and so much more than that, but propriety stayed his tongue. He recognized the hypocrisy in that, and yet he did not press the issue.

"No, nor could I," he told her. For a moment he stood towering over her, feeling all at once awkward and alive, his hands shoved in his pockets while he watched and waited. There was a strange, ethereal quality to the darkness; being nearly two in the morning, it seemed as if all the world was asleep save for the pair of them, and that reality held within it equal parts possibility and danger. Jean still didn't know what to make of him, he knew, was still frustrated and flummoxed by his inability to fit into the role assigned to him, while she herself was resigned to following the steps of the dance that had been laid before her feet.

She gave a little sigh and patted the blanket beside her in a welcoming sort of gesture, and so Lucien hitched up his trouser legs and stretched himself out upon the ground. It had been quite some time since last he'd found himself in this position, lying on the grass on a fine summer evening with a beautiful woman beside him, and so he decided to make the most of it. He lay flat upon his back and folded his arms behind his head, staring up at the stars that had so fascinated his companion before his arrival. An arrival that had, it would seem, made Jean supremely nervous. She was sitting still as a statue, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed firmly upon her feet. Her feet were as bare as her legs, her dainty, red-painted toenails mocking him from a distance.

"Tell, Mrs. Beazley," he said winsomely, not moving his gaze from the stars above him, "what's troubling you this evening?"

"I wish you wouldn't call me that," she said, in a voice so soft he almost didn't hear it. There was sorrow in that voice, but there was anger, too, and the sound of it pulled him upright. He sat beside her, shifting carefully so as not to disturb the blanket beneath them while he brought her face into his line of sight. For a moment he hesitated, wanting to reach out to her and yet holding himself back; there was so very much he didn't know about this woman, the troubles she'd endured over the course of her life, and so he held his breath, waiting for her to speak.

"Do you know how old I am, Lucien?" she asked him. The question struck him as odd, even as he berated himself for not knowing the answer. How could it be, he asked himself, that he'd been sharing a roof with this woman for the better part of a year, and did not know how old she was? He knew the day of her birth, if not the year, and rather hoped that the gift he'd given her would make up for his ignorance.

It would seem Jean had no intention of waiting for his answer.

"I'm forty-three. I was married for eight years, a lifetime ago. It doesn't seem fair, sometimes, that those eight years seem to matter more than the other thirty-five." She was still staunchly refusing to look at him, but there was a sickly light filtering out through the curtains over the kitchen windows, and when it struck her eyes he saw the glistening of unshed tears. From the other side of the blanket he could almost feel her berating herself for voicing such a thought aloud, but Lucien would never hold it against her. He knew rather how it felt, at times.

"You could go back to your maiden name," he suggested kindly, but Jean just laughed derisively.

"I can't, Lucien," she told him. "There's enough talk about you and I as it is. Can you imagine what they'd say if I changed my name? Perhaps I should stop wearing my wedding ring while I'm at it, and send all the ladies of Ballarat into collective apoplexy."

Despite himself Lucien laughed; she was a clever one, his Jean. Clever, and kind, but brittle, he knew. There was no mirth in her just now; she turned to him sharply, her eyes flashing in the darkness between them.

"Is everything a game to you?" she asked, her voice low but venomous. "I have been cold and lonely for seventeen years, Lucien. Seventeen  _years._ Do you have any idea what that's like?"

As a matter of fact, he did have some idea, and he opened his mouth to tell her so, to defend himself against her sudden aggression, but she carried on, relentless. "Tell me the truth. When was the last time you...slept with a woman?" There was only the slightest hesitation, before she asked her question; her cheeks colored, her innate sense of decorum at war with the baser emotions that filled her, and in the end it was clearly her heart, and not her head, that won the battle. She lifted her chin in a show of defiance, and he couldn't help but wonder, for a moment, what exactly it was she was trying to prove.

The question itself was a difficult one; he knew the answer, but he feared the consequences. All around them the night was still and quiet and warm, the air close and thick with the crackling electricity that always seemed to spark between them. He could lie, he  _should_ lie, and yet he found that when she fixed those eyes upon him he was powerless to resist her.

"About two years ago," he said slowly, confused by the victorious jut of her jaw this response earned him.

"See?" she asked triumphantly.

He really didn't.

"It's different for you, Lucien," she explained impatiently. "You're a man, and a wealthy one. You're allowed a bit of leniency. It's almost expected of you, to go out and...scratch that itch." Even in the darkness he could tell that this conversation had made her somewhat uncomfortable, was testing the bounds of her own sense of propriety, but for some reason it seemed important to her that she carry on, and Lucien was not about to stop her. "No one would would be even remotely surprised, to hear such a thing about you. But the first question out of their mouths will always be  _who was the woman?_ You can do what you like, but the woman is eviscerated for it, every time."

His thoughts drifted back, trying to understand how exactly they had reached this point in the conversation, and then, quite suddenly her earlier confession hit him square in the chest.  _Seventeen years._ Jean, beautiful, brilliant, gentle Jean, had been alone for seventeen bloody years.  _When was the last time,_  he wanted to ask her,  _when was the last time someone held your hand, kissed your cheek, set your heart to racing? Oh Jean, my Jean, how lonely have you been?_

"You wouldn't be the first," he said softly. There was something about the darkness, the lateness of the hour, the pale glow of Jean's skin in the moonlight, that made him lower his voice, unwilling to speak too loudly lest this moment of opportunity should shatter all around him. Jean shifted away from him, and he realized belatedly how his comment sounded. He hadn't meant to imply...or perhaps he had. It was difficult to know, any more, what he'd meant, what he wanted. "I just meant, it happens. It happens all the time, and no one the wiser. For every story you hear there are ten you don't. You can be careful. You don't have to be alone, Jean."

Beside him she shivered; it was a warm night, he'd thought, but then she was a slight woman, and her blouse was thin, and she'd been out here much longer than he.  _I have been cold and lonely,_ she'd told him. In that moment, tracing the fine lines of her face with hungry eyes, he finally admitted to himself what he'd been denying from the moment he first met her; he did not want Jean to be cold, or lonely, ever again, and he wanted to be the reason why. He wanted his to be the arms that held her, his to be the lips that kissed her, his to be the heart that loved her. Perhaps it was madness, to think a woman as good and kind as Jean might stoop so low as to have a man like him, but he wanted it - wanted  _her -_  with a ferocity that shocked him. Already she knew him, understood him better than even she realized, had wormed her way beneath his skin and taken up residence among the shattered ruins of his heart.

With a great deal more courage than he actually felt, he shuffled closer to her. When she did not protest he took this as a point in his favor, and boldly wrapped his arm around her waist. To his surprise, and his delight, she rested her head upon his shoulder, letting loose a deep, weary sigh.

"Are you cold now?" he asked her. The faint scent of her perfume floated on the balmy summer breeze and set his heart to racing.

She shook her head, her soft hair tickling his chin through his short beard. For a time he satisfied himself with this, with holding her, comforting her in the darkness, telling himself he ought to be thankful for even this small gift. It was more than he would have believed possible just that morning, and he was determined to enjoy it for as long as he could, determined to be a gentleman, and push her no further.

He had no sooner resolved himself to this chaste embrace and quieted the hungry impulses of his baser nature than Jean spoke again, and dispelled all the constraints he had placed upon himself.

"Thank you, Lucien," she breathed into the darkness. "For sharing your warmth with me."

He turned sharply at those words, and all at once found himself staring into her eyes, wide and bright, the color of the sea in a storm. Seated as they were upon the ground their faces were very nearly on the same level, and only inches away, close enough for him to feel the warm wash of her breath upon his cheekbone when she gasped. The right thing to do, he knew, would be to pull away now, perhaps kiss her gently on the cheek or forehead - somewhere safe - and then help her to her feet and lead her into the house. Lucien had never been very good at doing the right thing, however.

"I'm happy to," he told her, his words dripping with longing and double meaning, a meaning she understood all too well, if the sudden flush of her cheeks was anything to go by. "Whenever you want, Jean," he continued, closing the small space between them and planting his lips upon the rise of one of those pale pink cheeks. "Whatever you want," he added in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper. He pressed his nose to the soft of skin of her cheek, his lips open and millimeters from hers. Beneath his arm he felt her trembling, but she did not back away. Her hands rose up, cradling his face, but she made no move to separate them.

It was heaven, it was hell, it was purgatory, it was somehow all three, sitting there with his arm around her, the scent of her skin invading his senses, her thumbs tracing his cheekbones while she shook beneath him like a leaf in the wind. They were balanced together on the edge of a knife, with no indication of which way they might fall, each of them waiting with bated breath for Jean to speak and decide their fate. In the heartbeats that passed between his declaration and her response he closed his eyes and nestled closer to her, breathing her in deeply, struggling to keep from pressing her back against the gingham until she told him straight out what it was she wanted from him. This was Jean, beautiful, sweet Jean, who had confessed her lonesomeness to him, had unveiled this previously hidden piece of her heart to him, and it was Jean he wanted, Jean he needed, Jean he craved.

"We can't," she whispered, but even in those words of rejection he heard her pleading with him, with herself, trying to find some way to change the answer. A good man would have nodded and left her then. A good man would have respected her reputation. A good man would have put a ring upon her finger, done everything in the proper order.

Lucien Blake was not a good man.

"It's no one's business what you do, Jean," he told her softly. Her hands still held his face, neither drawing him closer or pushing him away, only cradling him gently, her whole body tight and tense beneath him. "The house is empty," he pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, hoping against hope that she would take the leap and tumble with him from the precipice. "The whole city is asleep," another kiss, another silent prayer for clemency, for benediction, for the blissful touch of her hands to never leave his skin.

"You are the devil, Lucien Blake," she breathed, her voice quivering with undisguised longing. "You have found me dying in the desert, and you offer me water in exchange for my soul."

"Your soul is yous, Jean," he told her earnestly, meaning every word. Jean was a good Catholic girl, he knew, a girl who regularly attended mass and prayed for her neighbors and did not tolerate even the appearance of sin in her house. But the bindings of her religions and her society were chafing her, he knew; she had been too long restrained, unable to follow the desires of her heart, and Lucien wanted, with all his heart, to set her free, to watch her soar. "At least this way you'll have something interesting to confess next time."

She laughed, a startled, slightly damp sounding laugh, but even so it lifted his spirits immensely. The hand that clasped her hip gave her a gentle squeeze, pulled her in tighter, a question asked and then answered by her own hands, still cradling his face. Ever so carefully she moved him back from her, taking a moment to stare into his eyes before she smiled the most glorious - albeit tremulous - smile he had ever seen.

"I don't want to be lonely any more," she told him, and before he could respond, she leaned forward, and gently brushed her lips against his own.

* * *

Jean's head was spinning, the moment her lips touched his. Somewhere in the back of her mind a voice was shrieking, crying out a warning; this was madness, and she knew it. Lucien was her employer, she depended on him to keep herself housed and fed, and it would not do, to allow him to take such liberties, to blur the lines in their relationship. It was madness, but she could not bring herself to stop, not now when her heart was singing, when he had tangled his fingers in her curls and brought her lips back to his own, eager for more. Seventeen years she had been waiting, in mourning and penitience for a man whose face she could hardly recall, no matter how she had loved him once. Seventeen years, a lifetime of waiting, of feeling her heart withering in her chest, in railing against the senseless waste. She carried within her so much love, bottled up, with nowhere to go, no one to lavish it upon, and somehow fate - or God, or the devil himself - had sent this man to her, this beautiful, terrible man with his hungry eyes and his powerful hands. This man who held her like she was precious, who had so far done no more than kiss her, and yet with his lips and his tongue had left her feeling as bare as if she were laid out naked before him.

Despite all her reservations she kissed him back with equal ardor, gasping when she felt his tongue brushing against her own. Seventeen years, since last she'd indulged this wanton, needy piece of herself, and she loosed it now in earnest, her inhibitions falling by the side as he plucked the pins from her hair and let her curls fall in reckless abandon all around them. On and on it went, a kiss that only grew in intensity as they both struggled to pull themselves closer together, hungry for the brush of skin on skin, drunk on the taste of one another. And then, quite suddenly, Lucien's hand abandoned her hair; he gripped her hips in his hands, and with a strength she hardly knew he possessed he lifted her as easily as if she were a doll, their lips never parting as he settled her upon his lap. Jean gasped into their kiss but he carried on, heedless. Her skirt was bunched up around her waist, her bare thighs revealed and pressed hard against his own, solid as marble beneath his trousers, but she could not spare a moment to wonder at her own recklessness, not when she knelt above him like this, her fingertips tracing the veins of his neck while his lips and the rough scrape of his beard burned her alive with want of him.

It had not escaped her notice, that Lucien Blake was a handsome man. Tall and broad-shouldered, the muscles of his arms sculpted and well defined, the expanse of his chest teasing her beneath the fine material of his expensive suits. Try though she might, she had - more than once - caught herself staring at the curve of his bicep, the flexing of his thigh as he walked, and though she chastised herself for it later, those visions had been all but burned into her brain, some small, hungry piece of her wondering what it might feel like to run her hands along his skin, to feel the heat and the hardness of him beneath her touch. And  _oh,_ but she could feel him now, could feel the strength in the arms that held her, the desire in the lips that kissed her, the throbbing need that pulsed from the growing bulge in his trousers up between her thighs. All unthinking she rocked against him, her body taking over as rational thought deserted her, and beneath her Lucien groaned, and dragged his lips down the column of her throat.

For the first time since that kiss had begun she took a deep breath, and released it with a helpless whimper as his lips landed upon her pulse point, suckling gently while she rocked above him and his hands mapped a path from the nape of her neck all the way down to the swell of her bottom. Here his hands stopped, curving into her, guiding the motion of her hips, encouraging her to buck against him, the delicious friction leaving her breathless. For the moment they were still fully dressed, seated upon her gingham blanket, with no one to see them save the stars. Jean had never made love outside before, but she was relishing it now, exulting in the certainty of his hands guiding her along, in the way he dispelled her every doubt and left her full of him instead.

"Jean," he groaned her name against her skin, his breath hot as fire, but she could not respond; she felt as if she had taken flight, as if the roaring in her ears was not her blood thrumming through her veins but the sound of the wind whistling beneath the wings that had he given her. He had set her  _free_ , and she was reveling in it, for the first time in a very long while.

His hands were on the move again; he dragged his fingertips slowly up her bare thighs, the promise in that touch setting her to trembling with a desperate longing, but then his touch was gone, and she was bereft. He was following the lines of her shape over her clothing now, his hands passing over her hips, her sides, his thumbs brushing against the straining swells of her breasts before at last he came to a stop, and began slowly, steadily unbuttoning her blouse. Eager and uncertain all at once she rewarded his boldness with another downward thrust of her hips, feeling his hardness through all the layers that separated them still, feeling the way he shuddered in response, his lips tightening against her skin momentarily. She opened her mouth to admonish him, to warn him not to leave a mark, but then he moved on; it would seem he did not need her warnings. Already he knew what she needed, knew how to love her well, and she gave herself over to him entirely.

Before she realized what had happened he finished unbuttoning her blouse, but he let out a soft sound of displeasure when he slipped it from her shoulders and found her slip instead. She reached out and caught his face in her hands once more, tilting her head back so that she could look into his eyes, those eyes as bright and blue as the sky, terrible and fierce and burning with longing for her.

"I want to see you," he all but growled. Though she opened her mouth to respond he did not give her a chance to speak before he was moving them again; ever so gently he flipped them, eased her to the ground so that she was lying on her back beneath him, staring up at him in wonder, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders, fingers curling into his muscles and clinging to him for dear life.

If he wanted to see her it was nothing compared to her own desire to have him bare beneath her hands, and so she helped him to divest her of her many layers in the hopes that the sooner she was naked, the sooner he would be, also. It took some doing; every morning she wrapped herself in delicate armor, each piece designed to hide her true self from the world, to mold her into the vision of demure widowhood the world seemed to demand from her. And though she hated it, Jean knew what was expected of her, and played the game better than anyone, walking with her head held high though her heart was screaming. It seemed right, somehow, that Lucien should be the one to see her, to see all of her, the spread of her hips and the silvery stretch marks around her thighs and the soft pink of her nipples, all those pieces of herself she tried so hard to hide; he was the bravest man she'd ever known, a man dedicated to truth in all things, a man who had seen the world, yet somehow had chosen her to love on this night, and she was grateful for it.

Finally his task was finished and he sat back on his heels for a moment, his eyes shining at her through the darkness as he drank in the sight of her. If she had to give a name to the look upon his face she would have called it  _besotted,_ but then those heavenly lips descended upon her breast and she was left to operate on sensation alone, arching into his touch, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the smooth fabric of his shirt stretched taut across his powerful shoulders, unable to contain the soft pants of desire that came flooding out of her. It had been so bloody  _long;_ she wanted to weep, for she could not remember a time when she had felt this loved, this needed, this desirable. The touch of his lips upon her breast, the soft swirling of his tongue around her rapidly hardening nipple, the strength of the hand that curled around her thigh left her breathless and more aroused than she could ever recall being in her entire life. In his arms she felt delicate, and fragile, and fierce, and  _loved_ , but she could not spare a moment to dwell on how strange that was, that Lucien's touch should make her feel that way, when they had only known one another for such a little while.

"Lucien," she gasped his name. Already she could feel herself spiraling into a sea of pleasure, but she needed him, needed to feel the heat of his skin, and she could no longer bear the friction of his trousers against the delicate skin of her inner thighs. " _Please."_

He lifted his head from her breast, his eyes hopeful and uncertain all at once. "I want to see you, too," she whispered, her palm finding its way to his cheek, smiling when he pressed himself into her touch. With a smile as bright as the sun itself he nodded and rose to tower above her, a Greek god come to life, lit from behind by the glow of the kitchen lights, from above by the shining of the stars. He stripped himself unselfconsciously, and she watched in awe and desperate need, her mind reeling at the thought that this was  _Lucien,_ sliding his trousers down his legs while she stared unabashedly at him from her perch upon the ground. Hidden as they were at the back of the house, surrounded by a wall of hedges and cloaked in the anonymity of the night, Jean did not worry that any of the neighbors might see them, and with Danny and Mattie both away for the evening they found themselves for once well and truly alone, and she smiled, just a little, to think that this was how they had chosen to use their time by themselves. It was, she decided, the best occupation they could have found for themselves. Whatever trouble it may bring upon them, she was determined to weather it. She had denied herself too long, and now she was no longer certain that she could.

The moment he was naked Lucien was in her arms once more; her eyes snapped shut and a whimper escaped her as she felt his hardness nudging against her entrance, already damp with need of him, but Lucien it would seem was in no particular hurry to couple them. He resumed his previous position, his lips lavishing attention on her other, as yet neglected breast, while his hand traced patterns across the soft skin of her stomach and left her tingling with anticipation. She knew what he was doing, as that hand slipped ever lower, and she urged him on with each quiet shift of her body, cradling him there between her thighs and canting her hips towards him in silent invitation. It was an invitation he accepted at once; his fingers slid down, through the raspy curls at her center until he was tracing the shape of her folds and she was mewling with barely repressed longing. She wanted to encourage him, to tell him what to do and where to go, but she could not form the words, and it would appear that Lucien needed no instruction; he found the spot, the one that made her buck her hips up towards him and gasp in delight, and he set to with a will. His thumb traced circles around and around her while first one and then two fingers dipped inside her folds, curling into her, his movements perfectly orchestrated and relentless, building her up and up and up until her vision went white and she bit her lip to keep from crying out her pleasure. Just the touch of his hand, that insistent, careful caress, the endless thrusting of his fingers inside her, had been enough to fling her out into the stars, to bring her to such heights as she had not ascended for such a very long time, and when finally her release washed over her she nearly wept with the magnitude of it, her legs locked around his waist and her hands fisted in the gingham blanket beneath her.

"Jean," Lucien growled against her breast where his lips and teeth had left a darkening bruise. "My Jean."

Though she wanted very to much to answer him she found she could not spare the breath to speak, and so she reached out to him instead, one hand drawing his face back to hers for a desperate, needy kiss while the other reached between them, intent on finding his hardness. He groaned against her lips when her hand wrapped around his shaft, and she grinned, breathless and powerful and  _alive,_ more alive than she had felt for years now. Beneath her hand he was hot and hard and throbbing with want of her, and so she did not tease him; she stroked him a few times, because she could, because she liked the way it felt when he pressed himself into her touch and growled her name against her lips. And then she shifted, preparing them both for what was to come.

Lucien recognized his cue and withdrew his hand from between her legs, lifting himself up above her in the darkness as she carefully guided him in. Her vision went black around the edges, when she felt the tip of him slip between her folds, but to his credit Lucien did not push her. He eased into her gently, one stroke, two, three, moving slowly, gradually sinking further and further until he was fully sheathed inside her. For her part Jean felt as if she were about to fly apart on the spot, overwhelmed and overcome with so many emotions she felt like to burst from the strain of keeping it all inside. He filled her fully, completely, deliriously, and she felt herself stretched almost to the point of pain; it was a delicious sort of pain, though, one that left her hungry for more.

"I'll be damned for this," she breathed, knowing it was true, that anything that felt this good must surely be a sin.

"At least we'll be together, then," Lucien answered, kissing her cheek once before he withdrew, sliding almost all the way out of her, the heat between them mounting with each passing second. And then he thrust sharply, filling her all at once, and she could not stop the cry that passed her lips at the sensation. She locked her ankles around his waist, fingertips digging into the rough, scarred skin of his back, and clung to him as he set up a heavy, relentless pace, pounding into her. The ground was unforgiving beneath her and she knew that she would feel the bruises of this love tomorrow, and the day after that, but she could not bring herself to regret it.

"Jean," he breathed her name again, the sounds of their lovemaking muffled by the trees and the hedges but echoing loud as gunfire in her mind.

"Don't stop," she begged him.

And he didn't. He continued, barreling into her, each movement of his hips punctuated by a soft, needy sound from her and a low, satisfied groan from him. Jean was utterly swept away by it, all but weeping in her need and her joy as again and again he filled her, as the coil of desire deep inside her wound tighter and tighter until at last he sent her tumbling from the edge; her nails scarred his back and she rose up, her lips attaching themselves to his shoulder to stop her crying out too loudly as her inner muscles clamped down upon his hardness like a vise. Her abandon was his undoing; he thrust into her trembling heat, once, twice, three times more, and then he was groaning his own satisfaction, spilling himself inside her while she trembled and shook and fell apart beneath him.

* * *

Lucien wasn't sure how long it took, for his breathing to return to something resembling normal, but when he came back to his senses he found himself still lying on top of her, his rapidly softening cock still buried in her still-fluttering heat, his head pillowed on her breast. Her legs were still clamped tight around his hips, her hands tracing over the scratches she had left down his back.

That shocked him more than anything else; it had been years, since he had allowed anyone to touch the scars that marred his flesh, and yet in the heat of their passion he had not thought twice about allowing Jean such liberty. Perhaps it was because he knew that she would be careful with him, that she could be trusted with his body as well as his heart. And she had rewarded that trust, for the scratches that she had left upon his back had not wounded him, but healed him, had brought him peace and joy and completion. It would not do, he knew, to lie there atop her indefinitely, and so he carefully extricated himself from her embrace, his heart rejoicing at the soft sound of displeasure that passed her lips when he uncoupled himself from her. Without a word she rolled against his side and he wrapped his arm around her, holding her close for as long as she would let him.

Which was not very long, in the end.

"We can't do this again, Lucien," she told him sadly, though she punctuated her words with a tender kiss pressed against his bare shoulder. He buried his face in her hair and breathed her in, pondering how best to answer her. This night had been a dream, a gift more precious than any he had ever received, and he could not bear the thought of seeing her every day, and yet not being allowed to touch her, to love her, whenever he chose. There were promises he might make to her, words he could speak that would bind them together, that would allow him to take such liberties, but he could not make those promises to her yet; he did not know what had befallen his family, and he felt it would be unjust, to offer himself to Jean when he did not even know if he was free to do so. And even if he did, he imagined she would likely spurn him, remind him that it wouldn't do, for a doctor to wed his housekeeper, even if they were both widowed, and too young to resign themselves to a lifetime alone, even if she did make love to him in a way that shook him to his very foundations. Their position was precarious indeed, and all he wanted, in that moment, was to reassure her.

"If that's what you want, Jean," he told her softly. "If you don't want to, then we won't, and I'll never speak of this again. But if… if it ever gets to be too much," he leaned back, wanting to look into her eyes as he spoke these words, "if you ever find yourself cold and alone again, I will be here, in whatever way you'll have me."

Those grey eyes held him, watched him, consumed him. "Thank you, Lucien," she breathed. Gingerly she closed the space between them and kissed him once, softly, so sweetly he thought he might cry, and then she pulled away from him.

Lucien took this as his cue to rise as well, stuffing himself back into his trousers for the short walk to the house. Beside him Jean stared at the pile of her clothes with a doeful gaze; he fancied he could imagine what she was thinking, how loath she might be to don her many layers once again, when she had only so recently cast them aside. And then she surprised him, his Jean, who always had to have everything just so; she wrapped herself in the gingham blanket, careful to avoid the damp spot they'd left behind, and gathered her clothes into her arms. Her hair was wild and unruly and beautiful, and as she stood before him, draped in the blanket and glowing from the touch of his hands, he found he understood why men had written odes to Athena, to her beauty and her wisdom and her terrible power.

"Good night, Lucien," she breathed, and then she set out for the house, leaving him to watch her go, his thoughts awash with her, and only her. Regardless of what she'd said, he knew in his heart this would not be the last time. Perhaps they would not settle into a comfortable affair, but he would have her again, he knew. The loneliness would come calling for her again, and when it did, he would be ready to hold her, to protect her, to shelter her in his arms and offer her what little comfort he could.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that a new chapter of AMKoL will be up tomorrow or Wednesday, but in the meantime this has been bouncing around in my head and a certain someone (xbox) requested that I write smut tonight, so here it is.

In the months following that beautiful starlit night in the garden Jean tried so very hard to convinced herself that those few precious minutes she'd spent wrapped in Lucien's embrace had been no more than a dream. It had come at a particularly low point in her life; having just rejected Robert's proposal, Jean had drunk rather more sherry than was truly wise, and when she'd gone up to her room she'd been distracted by the sight of her body in the mirror as she dressed for bed. Forty-three now, and showing her age rather more than she'd care to admit, she'd looked at herself, at all the tiny imperfections that she so vigilantly concealed beneath her dresses and foundation garments, and she'd all but wept, to think that she was no longer the girl she had been, to think that the dreams she'd harbored in her heart that one day her dreary life might be blessed by the brilliant light of love once more had been, at long last, well and truly dashed. So she had dressed again, and gone outside to lay beneath the stars, to whisper a prayer, to ask forgiveness from God for her selfish, bitter disappointment, for the wanton yearnings of her heart, to beg forgiveness from Christopher for her thoughts which of late had turned away from her family and her domestic duties and focused instead upon the rather handsome doctor who had so upended her existence.

And then he'd come to her, as if her thoughts of him had conjured him on the spot, as if, devil that he was, he could read her every longing, and sought to fulfill them, no matter how shameful, how base, how crass. To his credit, he had been the soul of courtesy, after, had not brought it up once in conversation, had not presumed to put his hands upon her person, to ask for a repeat performance. At first this had given Jean cause to doubt herself; had he not enjoyed their tryst?  _She_  had enjoyed it; the touch of Lucien's hand had rocked her to the core, had woken the slumbering beast of desire that had lain dormant in her chest for so many long years now, had breathed life into her weary soul. Those doubts, vanished, however, as the days wore on. More than once she had helped him find his bed when he was too far gone in drink, and his eyes had watched her every move with a hunger that sent chills down her spine. His hands had reached for her, as she tugged his blanket up to his chin, clinging to her as a child to his favorite toy. And sometimes when he was sober, when they were sharing a meal or she was washing the dishes or he was peppering her with questions about local history and the latest gossip, she would see upon his face the sort of delight that could only be equated with real, genuine affection.

It was the sort of affection, truth be told, that absolutely terrified her.

It was one thing, she knew, to give in to the riotous clamouring of her body, her heart, her soul, on a single beautiful night with no one but the stars to bear witness, to ask forgiveness for having strayed from the path of righteousness, to say her Hail Marys and her Our Fathers and repent, to treasure those memories but know such bliss could never be repeated. It was quite another thing to want it, to long for it, to wake in the middle of the night sweating and gasping and aching to have him between her thighs once more. And yet her thoughts were tormented by him, by the memory of the strength of his arms, the gentle touch of his hands, the rough rasp of his breaths in her ear as he spilled himself inside her, their bodies wound as close together as it was possible for two people to be. Such thoughts were madness, and so she told herself, again and again, that it was sinful, that it was folly, to allow her employer, the man upon whom she depended for food and shelter, to take such liberties.

As the days passed, they managed to find some comfort in routine, and Jean overheard him, more than once, on the phone with Joy McDonald. Though Jean did not trust the woman - did not particularly like her, even - she had to admit that this was probably for the best. Let Lucien fall for Joy, this worldly, wicked woman whose wild heart seemed so well suited to his own. Doctor Blake could hardly court his own housekeeper, but a well-to-do young journalist, clever and university educated just like him, made for a fine match. No matter how Jean might long for him, she understood too well the barriers that separated them, understood that she would never be more than the help, and she tried, as she always did, to find contenment right where she was. Let Joy have his love, then; Jean would have his friendship, and count herself lucky for it.

And then the call came in from one of Joy's journo friends; Lucien's daughter had been found, alive and well, living in China. Of course he had gone to her at once, and Jean, upon discovering that he'd gone, had only wished him well. She knew what it was to love a child, and were their roles reversed, she would have done much the same, would have leapt at the chance to go and wrap her arms around that missing piece of her heart. What troubled Jean about his leaving was not that he had gone, but rather the letter he had left behind.

Addressed to her and written by a shaking hand, he had signed it  _yours, with much affection._ She had stared at those words, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, for longer than she cared to admit.  _Yours._ Oh, how she wished.  _With m_ _uch affection._ Without a doubt, but what sort of affection? The sort of affection a man has for his housekeeper, his friend, the sometimes matronly figure who fed him his meals and made sure he found his way safely to bed? Or the sort of affection a man might harbor for a woman, a woman he wanted, a woman he loved? Jean did not know, and though she cursed herself for her weakness, the moment her tears subsided she made her way upstairs and pinned the brooch he'd given her for her birthday to her chest. During the long weeks of his absence she wore it more often than not, running her fingertips across it and indulging herself in thoughts of him, this man who had given her this gift, this precious gift meant for his wife, this gift he'd held for seventeen long years, only to bestow it upon  _her._ It meant something, she was certain, this thoughtful gesture, and she treasured it, even as she berated herself for needing a physical reminder of him during their separation.

And now he was back. The moment she saw him turn to her on the pavement beside the bus her face had split wide with a smile too bright, too brilliant to be restrained; she only just stopped herself from flinging her arms around his neck, from holding him tight to her and whispering that however much affection he might harbor her for, her own for him was boundless. Yet before she could, there came Joy McDonald, and with her all the hard truths Jean had studiously ignored while she spent long nights dreaming of Lucien's homecoming.  _You're j_ _ust the housekeeper,_ she reminded herself firmly, even as she whisked Lucien away to the latest crime scene.  _He may have held you once, but you cannot ask for more._

And so it was that she brooded on the futility of her heart, that she tried to silence the bitter longing of her body, shivering each time he drew near, and set about making his supper once again. This was her role; she might wish that things were different, might dream of him, still, but she could not ask for more than this, to have him in this house, smiling at her softly. She would content herself with this; to ask for more would be madness.

"Something smells good," came the sound of his voice, rich as honey and hoarse from a long day's work, sending a chill racing down her spine as he spoke to her from the kitchen doorway. She glanced at him over her shoulder, hoping he would blame the flush in her cheeks on the hot stove, that he would not recognize that she was afflicted by an altogether different sort of heat. Damn him, damn his soft, warm gaze, the strain of his biceps against his shirtsleeves, the way she could not stop her eyes traveling over him, following the crease of his trousers and remembering what lay beneath. Jean could not recall having been so affected by desire since the heady days of her youth, when Christopher first touched her and set her ablaze. It was as if, having had a taste of him, of what they could be together, she was now ravenous for more. Long months without him had not quelled her yearning; if anything, doing without him for so long had only increased her need of him, and now that he was near, she found she could think of nothing else save having him, the taste of him, the delirious heat and hardness of him once again.  _Maybe,_ she thought desperately, offering him a weak smile,  _maybe just once more. Maybe if I could just have him once more, I could be satisfied. Maybe things would be easier, if we just released this tension._

After all, it had worked before. They had drawn closer in the wake of their frantic love-making, had learned to trust one another, and they had both of them seemed more comfortable as a result. And she had been so terribly lonely for so very long, with Danny off in Melbourne and Mattie working hard on her study. He had eased her loneliness, before, and if the way he was looking at her was any indication, he was more than willing to do it again. She heaved a little sigh, releasing the restraints she had placed upon herself with the rush of her own breath. She would not ask for it, would not ask for  _him_ , would not stoop to such lasciviousness unprompted, but if he came to her, if he placed those broad hands upon her hips and pressed his lips to her neck, she knew that all her intentions of being no more than his housekeeper would disappear like smoke on the wind, that she would turn to putty in his arms. Let him come, then; she had no defenses left.

* * *

The sight of Jean standing by the stove in her soft floral dress, her apron firmly in place, her dark curls escaping their pins at the end of a long day to draw his eye to the tantalizing curve of her neck, was almost more than he could bear. Since that night in the garden Lucien could not count the number of times he had taken himself in hand, thinking of her breathy moans, the heat, the rapture, the beauty of her, longing for the real thing but knowing she was too good, too determined, to allow him a second showing. He had spent weeks without her in China, and though at first his heart had been full to bursting with love, with hope, with thoughts of his daughter, his dreams had been dashed when he came face to face with Li. She had been distant, unwilling to trust this man who claimed to be her father, this man who had abandoned her and her mother to an uncertain fate. Those had been terrible days, after the devastation that had been their reunion, he so full of joy, and she so full of doubt. Thoughts of Jean had stayed him, when he very nearly turned tail and ran from his own child and the recrimination in her eyes;  _what would Jean think of me,_ he'd asked himself,  _if I just left, if I didn't even try?_ And so in the end he had convinced Li to let him write to her, believing that if only they got to know one another better, she might one day willingly call him  _father_. Jean had done that for him, had kept him from falling headfirst into the bottle and the local brothel, and he felt himself deeply in her debt as a result.

And then he had come home, and she had been waiting for him, as beautiful as he remembered, her smile as bright as the sun. Though Lucien had welcomed Joy McDonald's company on the long bus ride to Ballarat, he had all but forgotten about her the moment he laid eyes on Jean. Jean was a vision, beautiful and familiar, and he wanted nothing more than to drown in her. For a moment, only a moment, he could imagine that she was his wife, the way she chided him, the way she straightened his lapels, unable to keep her hands off of him, the affection in her voice intoxicating in the extreme. It had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed to stop him sweeping her into his arms, spinning her in a circle out of sheer exuberant relief, kissing her soundly there on the pavement as if she were his to kiss whenever he wished. And then Joy had made an appearance, and Jean's smile had dimmed, and his heart had sunk, to remember that she did not belong to him at all.

Not yet, at any rate. He had comforted himself in the months since their night in the garden by repeating, over and over, that she must surely one day be lonely again, and that when she was, he would be there for her.

_Is she lonely now?_ He wondered as he watched her at work, hungrily drinking in the sight of her, the neat flare of her slim hips, the soft curve of her bum, her smooth, graceful arms. He thought she might have been; something in the way she'd been watching him since his return, something in the flush of her cheeks, the flickering of her eyes as they wandered over his figure, told him that perhaps she had longed for him, just as he had longed for her.

_Tea first,_ he told himself. Jean was lithe and quick as a deer, and skittish, too, unwilling to flirt too close to the line of impropriety. That she had welcomed his embrace one night so many months before did not necessarily mean she would welcome it now, in the kitchen, with the sun sinking low on the horizon. And so he would make them each a cup of tea, and offer it to her as he might offer an apple to a doe, speaking to her softly and praying that she would make her way towards him.

The problem, as it were, was that the tea cups were housed in the cabinet directly above where Jean now stood, and she did not seem in any particular hurry to move as she faffed about with something Lucien could not comprehend on the stove top. To reach them, he would either have to ask her to move, or allow himself to draw closer to her than he had done since that night in the garden. One option was right and good and proper, the other totally unacceptable, but he knew which he preferred.

The problem was, as he saw it, that he had only had such a little taste of her. He had not truly seen her, his vision dulled by the darkness that surrounded them. He had watched her lying beneath him, but he had not been allowed the extravagance of burying his face between her thighs, of tracing the curve of her bottom with his tongue, of mapping each freckle and line upon her body as if they were constellations. He wanted more, wanted everything, and he was determined to start here, now, by pressing himself against her back in order to discover how they fit together, if she were amenable to exploring this forbidden longing that arced between them.

In an instant he was behind her; mindful of his dual mission - to feel the heat of her beneath his hands and retrive the teacups at the same time - he pressed himself against her and placed one hand on her shoulder, reaching up with the other to open the cabinet. It would be her choice, now, to chide him for his impropriety, to push him away, or to beg him for more, and he would be guided by her in this as in all things.

"Excuse me," he breathed, his voice low in her ear.

To his delight and his undoing, she gave a little gasp, the spoon she held clattering down onto the side. She did not turn to him, but nor did she push him away, and he took this as a point in his favor. She was so small, a head shorter than he and slightly built, enveloped now within the circle of his arms, and he felt a fierce, overwhelming desire to protect her, to shelter her, to cherish her with everything that he had. She was trembling, but somehow he knew it was not from fear; she was not easily frightened, his Jean. Abandoning all pretense of making tea Lucien reached out and turned off the heat on the stove top, not wanting any distractions - such as the ruination of their dinner - to interrupt whatever came next between them. Mattie was away for the evening and for the first time since the night in the garden, they had the house entirely to themselves, and he did not know when next such an opportunity might present itself.

"Jean," he breathed her name as his hand came to settle on her hip, giving her one last chance to push him away before his desire for her utterly consumed him. In response she only sighed, leaning back in his embrace, her head upon his collarbone, the swell of her bottom pressing deliciously against his slowly wakening hardness. The reality of the situation, the possibilities afforded to him now, the thought that he might once again have the chance to taste her, wrought havoc on his senses, left his heart pounding feverishly in his chest.  _Please,_ he begged her silently, his hands cradling her close.  _Please._

As if she'd heard him she turned in his embrace, her arms snaking round his neck, and he caught only the briefest glimpse of flashing grey eyes before his lips descended on hers and his world erupted into light and rapture.

_This_ was what he had been missing during the long days of his sojourn in China; the heat and the softness and the furious strength of her. She was resilient, was Jean, had overcome heartbreak and financial calamity and the shattering of her dreams to become the sort of woman who stood toe to toe with him, who shouted down his demons and made love to his better angels, who spoke to him in a voice so gentle yet unyielding as stone. She was glorious, and kissing him with everything she had, sucking his bottom lip between her teeth, having already discovered that such a move left him ravenous for her.

Beneath his hands she had come to life, no sign of the sad, somewhat bitter woman she had been in the wake of his father's death. She was surging up towards him, drawing the breath from his lungs and giving it back in turn, her body arching into his as his hands drifted down the perfect curve of her spine, coming to a rest on her bum, where he kneaded her flesh none too gently, drawing a heady moan from deep in the back of her throat as he rocked her against his hardness. They had not spoken of this, had not given vent to their frustrations and their sorrows as they had done the last time, but then he felt they did not need to, now. Now they knew one another, understood one another, so much better than before. Being inside her had changed him, and if the frantic way she was loosening the knot of his tie was anything to go by, it would seem that it had changed her as well. He made no move to stop her; he was hers to do with as she wished, and if she were half as desperate as he to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips then he would not deter her progress.

The question of her own garments swam through his chaotic thoughts; he needed to see her, needed it more than his next breath, but in order to bare her to him fully he would first have to contend with the myriad layers that protected the softness of her flesh from the cruel world beyond. Apron first, he decided, so as his tongue slid against her own his hands abandoned her bum and traced their way back up to the nape of her neck, untying the fastenings there so that the flowery fabric flowed away from her. With that task complete he turned to the zip of her dress, dragging it down her spine and relishing the sound of it rasping loud as thunder in the silence of the kitchen.

"Lucien," she gasped, tearing her lips away from him long enough to speak. He took the opportunity to look at her, really look at her, the flush in her cheeks and her lips swollen from his kisses, the straining swells of her breasts rising and falling with each of her panting breaths. Would she ask him to stop? Would she tell him they had gone too far already, that to proceed down this road was madness? She had called him the devil once, and he thought it must be true, for he knew that he tempted her, dragged her away from the gilded path the church had laid before her feet and onto the mottled road of darkness upon which he himself trod. In that moment, though, struck dumb by her sheer beauty, he found he could not repent for this sin.

He ducked his head, pressed his lips against the column of her throat and allowed his hands to splay across her back beneath her dress. She was fragile as a bird, so small he felt he could easily encircle her waist in his hands, could lift her up as easily as if she were weightless and send her soaring to the very heights of pleasure, but only if she willed it, only if she asked him to.

When she did not speak he kissed her still more soundly, the tip of his tongue darting out to taste the salty sweetness of her neck, and in his arms she shivered, and relaxed against him, pressing her cheek to his chest.

"Yes," she breathed, a single word of capitulation that had him racing into action in a moment. She had no sooner spoken than her dress was pooled on the floor at her feet. Beneath it she was still cloaked in a variety of soften, satin garments, all clasps and ties and convoluted hindrances, but before Lucien tore down those last remaining walls between them he followed through on his earlier suppositions, resting his hands on either side of her waist, his fingers nearly touching as he clasped her to him, feeling the rushing of her blood beneath her skin.

"You're beautiful, Jean," he whispered against her neck, fighting the impulse to sink his teeth into her, to consume her whole.

She sighed, threading her fingers through his hair, but she did not respond, just held him to her, just offered him the acceptance, the peace, the comfort that he craved, that he had only ever found in her arms. For a moment they stood together, poised on the precipice of utter abandon, their hearts beating in time to one another, lust and hope and love and fear churning within them, their bodies burning everywhere they touched. But such contemplation would not sate him indefinitely, would not satisfy the ache that had manifested deep in his soul. He pulled back from her slightly, brushing his lips against her temple as he set about methodically divesting her of the last of her armor. She helped him wordlessly, her eyes flickering across his face down to his chest and back again, a question there he could not fathom, but which he hoped to answer with every touch of his hand. The moment she was naked he pressed one hand flat to the small of her back, her body arching reflexively at the touch, thrusting the soft swell of her neat breasts toward his questing tongue, but he had no sooner kissed the tip of one pale pink nipple than she was pushing him away, nimble fingers intent on unfastening his shirt buttons.

It was his turn, then, to stand wholly at the mercy of her ministrations, and so he did, tracing his fingers up and down the unbearably supple skin of her back, taking in every curve, every dip, every line and plane and nuance of her body. She was truly beautiful, his Jean, with that challenging swing to her hips, though she was bereft of her bravado now, no longer the formidable Mrs. Beazley but Jean, just Jean, a woman flesh and bone and utterly lovely. She made quick work of his shirt and his vest, though her fingers trembled as she reached for his belt buckle. So she felt it, too, he realized, felt the same desire, the same insecurity that had him longing for her and doubting himself in equal measure. That comforted him more than he could say, and the soft jingling of his belt and trousers piling on the floor galvanized him into action. Before she could remove his trunks as well he cupped her face in his hands, drew her to him for another kiss, sweeter than the last as her breasts pressed against the hard plane of his chest. He traced her lips, her tongue, her teeth, learning the shape of her, seeking out the secrets she'd kept hidden from him, even the last time they had done this. There would be no corner of her left undiscovered by the time he was through, of that he was certain.

And then Jean did something he did not expect, something that decimated all his careful plans of making love to her slowly and loosed that furious passion he had tried so very hard to control up to this point. She hooked her hands in the waistband of his trunks and sent them tumbling to the floor, reaching out to clasp his hardness in her hand, pumping him a few times with deliberate strokes of her small, graceful hands. He groaned, biting down on her lip rather harder than he had intended, overwhelmed by the heat of her touch, and in response she whimpered, arching into him as though desperate for more. It would seem that however wild the passions of his heart her own matched him like for like, and any thoughts of taking things slow between them evaporated in an instant.

Defty he turned her in his arms, his hips pushing her forward toward the countertop, his hands rising up to knead her breasts as roughly as he dared. She threw her hands out in front of her, bracing herself against the countertop as she ground back against him, the lithe curve of her spine pressing her into him everywhere they touched, filling his hands with her breasts, teasing his cock with the softness of her bum. For a moment he worried he might be hurting her, might be clutching her hard enough to bruise, but the thought of the imprint of his hands upon her flesh only made his cock twitch in hopeful anticipation, and the sound that escaped her, a heady, desperate sound of want, told him that - as difficult as it was to believe - she wanted this as badly as did he. He kept one hand wrapped tightly around her breast, anchoring her to him, as with the other he took hold of himself, thrusting his hardness between her legs, across her slippery folds, both of them moaning at the sensation. She was wet already, soft and receptive to any advances he might make, and he wondered at that, gave thanks to a god he didn't believe in for the glory of this woman who understood him better than any other he had ever known.

"Jean," he gasped, wanting to be sure, needing to hear her say it, needing that one last confirmation of all his hopes and dreams.

"Please," she begged him, her voice low and throaty and desperate as his own had been.

His fingertips ran circles around her nipple, coaxing it harder and harder as he carefully lined himself up with her; she canted her hips, leaned forward on her hands, and the next thing he knew, he was slipping inside her. As the tip of his cock stretched her she writhed beneath him, the sound she made low and soft and indescribable.

He withdrew and pushed in again, deeper this time, feeling himself sliding into the warmth and wet of her, the sheer blistering heat of her setting his every nerve ending alight.

"I'm sorry," he told her softly, and before she could ask what he meant, he withdrew again, and plunged into her in earnest.

* * *

Jean could not breathe, could not think, could barely hold herself upright as Lucien began to pound into her relentlessly. It had been so long, so very long, since last she had a man behind her, inside her, holding her tight to his sweat-slicked body and feverishly thrusting within her. Christopher had been like this in the beginning, rough and demanding, tearing the breath from her lungs and leaving her trembling and begging him for more, but that had tempered with time; once she became the mother of his children, he treated her more gently, and though she found her pleasure nearly every time he took her, she had missed this, this wildness, this desperation, this pain so sweet it nearly brought tears to her eyes.  _So long, so long,_ she though, the words pounding out in time to each of Lucien's thrusts. Each time he filled her anew the head of his cock brushed against the place deep inside her that turned her bones to jelly, and so powerful was the movement of his body against her own she found herself squealing with every thrust of his hips. She would be bruised tomorrow, from the countertop battering against the tender flesh of her hips, from his hand clutching her breast so tightly, her lips still swollen and tingling from his kisses, but she relished every second of it.

And still he moved, harder and faster, the strength of him, the length of him inside her overwhelming her utterly. In his arms she found true abandon, that state of euphoria so far beyond the rigors of her normal life, felt herself being melted down and made into a new creature, a woman who was not complete without him there inside her.

Lucien could not speak, his breaths hard and heavy by her ear as he bore into her relentlessly. For her part, Jean had lost all sense of herself, could not even hear herself whimpering  _please please please_ over and over again. She felt herself clenching and fluttering around him, drawing him in deeper and deeper;  _please please please,_ she gasped. Together they climbed higher and higher, Lucien's free hand rising up to cradle her other breast, his broad chest pressed flush against her back, their skin feverishly hot, molding into one another. She was nearly there, so close to her rapture that she could have screamed with dire need if only she'd had breath enough to make such a sound, but as it was she could only tremble, tears sliding freely down her cheeks, shaking like a leaf on the wind until finally he drove into her one last time, and she shattered.

Bliss, everything was bliss; her heart stopped beating, her lungs stopped expanding, the rush of blood in her ears so loud it drowned out her cries, her inner muscles clamped down so hard upon his length that he could not withdraw, could only slam his hips into her and groan in exaltation as he spilled himself inside her, collapsing against her so that they rested together against the countertop, his hands still clutching her chest.

* * *

Lucien could not say how long they stood thus entwined, his slowly softening cock still clutched tight within her welcoming warmth, but in the end he came back to himself, and realized that he must have been crushing her. Regretfully he withdrew, and tried to fight the surge of pride that filled him as he took in her trembling legs, the sight of his release sliding slowly down her thighs appealing to him in the basest, most common of ways. His own legs were no stronger than hers in the wake of their feverish lovemaking; he turned to lean against the countertop, and instead found himself slowly collapsing onto the floor so that he was sitting at her feet. In a bemused state of wonder he reached out and traced the curve of her calf with his fingertips; Jean whimpered, and in the next moment he found her sprawled across his lap. With his arms encircling her he drew her close, her nose brushing against the coarse line of his beard as he rocked her as if she were a child. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, so many things he wished he had the courage to say, but in the end he could think of nothing profound enough to explain what he was feeling. And so he only held her, kissing her temple gently, and for a time they rested together. For the first time in a very long time they were both of them whole, and well, and at peace.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you fond of him?" Lucien asked her softly.

Jean's heart stuttered in her chest at his words, her whole body freezing as she wondered how on earth she was supposed to answer such a question, particularly given the source from whence it had come. It had been months, since the night they'd fallen together in that very kitchen, sated their longing for one another in fury and reckless abandon. Months of quietly dancing around one another, circumspect and thoughtful, each of them knowing now that the desire they harborded one for the other was more than simple lust, and yet not something that could be allowed to continue. It was unthinkable, really, a doctor taking up with his housekeeper, even if they were both of them widowed; living together under the same roof invited enough talk, but to cross that line, to court one another openly, would be an altogether more precarious situation. Nevermind that the talk was true; so long as no one knew what they had done - twice now - Jean could still hold her head high, go to Mass and and sit with her friends from the sewing circle and know that she was still a part of the community. If she chose Lucien, if she followed the little voice deep inside her heart that cried out for him at every turn, she stood to lose everything. She shuddered to think what her boys might say, if ever they learned the truth, and worry had begun to fester, the worry that one day soon Lucien might well grow tired of her, and when he did, her very livelihood would be forfeit.

And so she had accepted Richard's invitation, had forced herself to try to pin her hopes on someone else, someone softer, someone less wild, less reckless. Sitting with Richard, walking through the park with him, was  _nice_ , comfortable and secure and familiar. Altogether he made a more appealing match than poor Robert, and a safer one than Lucien. Of course any intentions he might have harbored towards her were moot now, after his little display in the garden, but the thought of confessing all this to Lucien galled her.

"Let's not talk about Richard like this," she told him, choosing to close down his line of inquiry and turn away from him altogether rather than admit what had transpired between them, rather than confess that there was a small piece of her heart that rejoiced, the moment she banished Richard from the garden. Every moment she had spent in Richard's company she had been thinking of Lucien, try though she might to redirect her affections. For Lucien -  _damn him -_ had burrowed beneath her skin, and every man she met was now measured against him, against the strength of his arms and the softness of his smile and the gentle, broken kindness of his heart.

But, like a dog with a bone, Lucien was not content to let it go.

"Are you fond of him?" he asked again.

_Why?_ Jean wanted to shout.  _What does it matter to you, where I go, who I see, who I'm fond of? What is it you want from me?_ Jean rather thought she knew the answer to that question, and the very prospect of it terrified her even as it elated her.  _Yes,_ she wanted Lucien Blake, and  _no,_ she could not have him, and every second this conversation dragged on only wounded her that little bit more.

"Because if you are," Lucien continued, "you have my blessing."

Jean whirled on him at once, heat flooding her cheeks;  _so that's the way of it then,_ she thought, even as bitter words poured forth from her unbidden. Lucien had given her his blessing, and in so doing, had revealed his own intentions towards her. He did not love her, then, had only shagged her because she was there, a body warm and willing and close to hand, and now that he had taken his pleasure he was content to foist her off onto the next contender. Jean's blood boiled at the very thought.  _Damn him._

"Oh thank you," she spat. "I'm so grateful. Why don't you organize the reception while you're at it?"

His brow furrowed, confusion and hurt on his face, but she had only just hit her stride, and she wasn't about to back down now. "You know, I'm not a fool, Lucien," she told him. "I don't just fall head over heels for any man who pays me some attention."  _I didn't let you have me just because you asked! I cared for you, I trusted you, and it seems that trust was misplaced._

Lucien had no doubt realized by now how grievously he had misstepped. He tried to save himself.

"Jean, I was just saying-"

The gentle tone of his voice did nothing to soothe the grief of her heart, and now that she had loosed that grief in earnest there was no stopping it. She found herself telling him the whole sorry story, just as she had moments before promised herself she would not.

"Richard is a very charming man," she continued.  _Though not half so charming as you, with your silver tongue, your devil's promises._ "But after he saw that film, he followed me into the garden, he got angry and he shouted at me." The sight of a man towering over her, red-faced and raging, had brought back too many sour memories, and Jean had known in that moment that she would not spend another instant in Richard's company.

"I'm so sorry, I had no idea." Lucien sounded contrite enough, and try though she might to remain cross with him, Jean found her heart softening towards him, just a little. It wasn't his fault, she supposed, that he had taken what she had so willingly offered and never asked for more, when she herself had told him they couldn't continue on. He was only acting according to the part she'd written for him, and if she had gone and fallen in love with him against her own better judgement, she had no one to blame but herself. She sighed and return to her spot beside him at the table.

"Yes, so, thank you for your blessing," she told him in a much more even tone, even if she could not keep the bitterness from her voice. "But this time, I'll pass." Now that she'd made her tea she had no cause to linger, and so she turned away from him once more, crossing to stand by the sink, staring out the window, thinking morosely of her own tattered heart and the fickle machinations of fate. She supposed he would leave her, now that her tirade was done, now that he had assured himself she was not spoken for, and might still amenable to future liaisons between them. And God help her but she was, distracted by the memory of the heat and hardness of him beneath her hands, trembling, just a little, to think that she had cradled this man between her thighs. It was wrong, she knew, but she could not silence the longing of her heart.

And it would seem that Lucien was likewise troubled by the state of affairs between them for, much to her surprise and trepidation, he did not leave her.

"This time?" he asked softly.

"I'm sorry?" she answered, not daring to look at him, not understanding for a moment what on earth he was talking about.

"You said  _this time I'll pass._ Which, one would think, implies that there might be a next time."

His footfalls were soft but she heard them nonetheless, felt the rush of heat sweeping over her as he came to stand beside her at the sink, the firmness of his bicep brushing against her shoulder as he loomed over her, so effortlessly blocking out her every thought save for him. For a moment Jean thought she might have realized what game he was playing at with his question, asking her so indirectly if she were looking for someone to join his life to hers. Could it be, Jean wondered, her heart pounding recklessly in her chest, that such a thought wounded him? Could it be he did not want to share her with the next man in line?

"It's not as if there are a lot of offers on the table, Lucien," she corrected him gently.

"I find that hard to believe," his voice rumbled at her, and she fought the urge to sigh once more.

"Lucien," she started to tell him  _no,_ to beg him to stop, to remind him that they could never be, but he was, as ever, relentless.

"And next time, Jean? Next time a man notices how beautiful you are, how kind and good and lovely, will you accept him then?"

Jean sucked in a sharp breath, moved by the sincerity of his words, the heat of his voice, knowing she ought to say something and yet utterly unable to conjure up the words to stop him. Lucien must have taken that as a point in his favor for he caught her by the wrist then, smoothly relieving her of her teacup before his arms snaked around her and his lips descended upon hers in a heat and a fury the likes of which Jean had never known.

* * *

For days he had tried to remain circumspect, to keep his distance and allow Jean the space she needed to live her life as she chose, but now that he knew Richard was gone he could not remain idle a single second more. It had damn near killed him, seeing her wearing that dress that hugged her every curve so beautifully, sitting at the table with another man, bestowing her gentle smiles and tender affections on any one who was not him. Jean would never have him, he knew, would not consign herself to the whispers and a life as reckless and wild as the one he led, but still the thought of her in another man's bed had enraged him almost to the point of foolishness. Now that he knew what Richard had done, that Jean harbored no fondness for him, Lucien felt an almost primal urge to claim her, brand her as his, to banish the thought of any other man and bind her to him. Perhaps she would not be his wife, and perhaps she did not want to be his lover, but when he claimed her lips in his fevered kiss she did not push him away; instead she wrapped her arms around him, one hand rising to cup his check, her fingertips brushing against his skin and setting him on fire with need of her.

She whimpered, just a little, when he caught her bottom lip between his teeth, and his mind was suddenly awash with memories of the last time he had taken her, hard and fast in that very same room. Before he could stop himself he was thrusting his tongue against her own even as he pressed her back against the countertop, knowing that in the push and pull of their bodies she must surely feel the brush of his growing arousal against her. But Jean did not shy away, did not beg him to stop; she ground her hips forward against him, eliciting a visceral moan from the very depths of his soul. How could it be, he wondered, that he had been lucky enough to cross paths with such a creature, a woman who was above reproach, and yet was wanton and willful and strong enough to hold him together, even when he was falling to pieces? He wanted her, he needed her, he  _had_ to have her, and he could not find the wherewithal to stop himself.

His hands snaked out across her body, following the line of her spine beneath her thin blouse; damn those clothes she wore, he thought dimly, her perfectly tailored shirts and skirts that covered everything propriety demanded and yet fit her every curve so enticingly he almost perished with longing every time he looked at her. Still he kissed her, starving for the taste of her, and still she kissed him, her lips and her tongue driving back against his own with a need and a hunger that left him breathless, her fingers threading his hair so that her nails could scrape lightly against his scalp and send shivers coursing down his spine. His hands crested the swell of her ass, and there he paused, kneading her flesh, rocking her against him, and the hopeless sounds of want that left her then shattered what little remained of his self restraint.

Almost before he realized what was happening he was gathering the stiff material of her starched brown skirt in his hands, hitching it up and up; eager to see her he tore his lips from hers, peppered kisses down the line of her neck, urged her with lips and tongue to turn her head so that his mouth could find its home just behind her ear. Without a thought for consequences he caught her skin between his teeth, his body curving over her, watching in a state of desperate longing as he gathered her skirt up around her hips and revealed her stockings and suspenders at last.

There was something so damnably erotic about the sight of a woman in stockings, he thought, particularly a woman blessed with legs so soft and fine as Jean's, the sheen of the material, the lace that hugged her skin, the flash of bare thigh just above them promising delights beyond all comprehension. His hands once more gravitated to her bum, separated from the delirious heat of her skin by the thinnest scrap of satin, and he could not stop himself from caressing her, following the lines and curves of her. At the touch of his hands she moaned in his arms, the mark of his lips heavy and dark behind her ear, and moaned again when his hands began to move, deft fingers sliding between her legs from behind, tracing the outline of her folds through her knickers and feeling her already damp and blistering hot. Lucien could not stop, could no more have withdrawn his hands from her than he could cut the beating heart from his chest; she was warm and real and  _here_ , in his arms, with his mark upon her skin, wet and wanting from the touch of his hand, from the taste of his kiss, just as he was painfully hard and crying out for her.

"Jean," he growled, needing her agreement as he felt himself dangerously close to stripping her bare and taking her against the countertop once more.

" _God,_ yes," she answered breathlessly, grinding down against his hands.

Lucien grinned, awestruck by her response to him, by the thought that this woman was in his arms, not Richard bloody Taylor's. And in that moment he made a promise to himself, not to take her hard and fast and brutal in the kitchen, but to show her with the touch of his hand and the caress of his lips all that she had come to mean to him, all that she could have, if only she would have  _him_. The thought of pouring such affection upon her, to kneel at her feet and worship her as a supplicant before an altar calmed his racing pulse somewhat; he could do this, he knew, could lavish her with love the likes of which she had never known, could show her that no one would ever love her, cherish her, move her the way he could. With a growing confidence he shifted his grip upon her and lifted her into his arms; she gave a startled gasp, but wrapped her legs tight around him in an instant, her arms draping over his shoulders as her face suddenly came level with his own.

Those eyes; for a moment he simply held her, her heat pressed hard and fast against him, the bare skin of her thighs above her stocking top delicious beneath his hands, staring into those eyes, brilliant and sparkling and full of trust, of hope, of the affection he so dearly wished she harbored for him. Jean could not lie to him, not now, not like this, and he very nearly began to weep, so moved was he by the emotions she inspired in him. Still, though, he had a purpose, and so he leaned forward just enough to capture her lips once more. With the brush of her lips against his own, the taste of her, the smell of her, the sound of her sighs enveloping him, he turned away from the sink and beat a path down the corridor to his bedroom, his heart singing and his arms full of Jean.

* * *

Jean's mind raced as Lucien carried her down the corridor, his steps never faltering, his kisses never ceasing, his arms sure and strong and steady as he clasped her to him. With each step he took the friction between her own tender heat and the clothes he still wore stoked the flames of her desire still higher; he was taking her to his bedroom, she knew, was going to lay her down amongst his sheets and love her with everything he had, and the thought of it struck her core hard and fast as lightning. This was no quick shag, in the garden or the kitchen; this was deliberate, a choice he'd made to love her, now that he knew she did not have designs on another man. In the touch of his hand she felt the love he could not speak aloud, the love she wanted more than any other, and though she knew it was folly, knew it was a sin, she remained unrepentant, for there was nothing she craved more than his love.

She was still shocked, sometimes, by the sheer strength of him; he navigated the opening and closing of his bedroom door by holding her up with just one arm, and she could not stop herself from tracing the outline of his bicep beneath his sleeve, the hardness of his muscle delighting her just as much now as it had the first time she'd seen him bare beneath her hands. Jean knew what was waiting for her now, cloaked in his fine suit, and she could think of nothing else save running her hands over his golden skin, cradling his body against her own. It was  _wrong_ , she knew it was wrong, but Jean had spent seventeen years denying the longing of her heart, and she could not find such restraint now, not when she was faced with everything she'd ever dreamed of.

Ever so gently Lucien laid her out upon his bed, his body arching over hers until she connected with his duvet, landing gentle as a feather, feeling delicate and cherished beyond all measure. As he began carefully unbuttoning her blouse he kissed her lips, her cheek, brushed his lips over the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, each touch a benediction, a blessing so sweet it nearly made her weep. Something was different, this time; she could not give it a name, but the way he touched her, the way he soothed her every doubt with his caresses was so sure, so certain, so measured, that she could not help but feel as if he were trying to tell her something.

When her blouse was all unbuttoned he lifted her carefully, his lips landing on her shoulder as it was bared to him, and then he was tossing her shirt away, reaching for the zip of her skirt. Jean clasped his shoulders in her hands, lifting her hips obediently so that in a moment she was left lying before him in just her underthings, half bare while he stood still proud in his waistcoat and tie.

"You're so beautiful, Jean," he breathed as his hands ghosted down her sides, over her hips, following the lines of her thighs as he knelt before her. At the touch of his hand she trembled, raising one hand to cover her face, unwilling and unable to express the flood of hopeless longing that engulfed her at his words. He meant it, she knew now, believed her to be beautiful, despite the ravages of time upon her, despite the bitter words she'd spoken to him in the early days of their acquaintance, and though she wanted, so desperately, to tell him that she found him just as gorgeous, just as perfect as he seemed to find her, the words would not come.

Lucien didn't seem to mind, when she didn't respond; he was bent once more upon his task, his hands carefully unclasping her suspenders, rolling her stockings down her legs so slowly she could hardly stand it. Almost of their own accord her thighs widened to accommodate him, and when she lifted her head and gazed down the plane of her body the sight of Lucien Blake kneeling between her legs, fully clothed and bowing his head to drop a tender kiss against the soft skin of her inner thigh, was nearly enough to finish her off completely. Her body cried out for him, so loudly she was certain he must have heard it.

Still, though, Lucien took his time, his fingertips leaving trails of fire in their wake as he methodically removed first her stockings, then her foundation garments, then her knickers, until he could see her, all of her. Jean's cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment but Lucien just smiled, and then, oh then, he did something she had never imagined.

There were rules, in Jean's world, for the way of things between a man and a woman. The church's rules, proscribing every act, and Jean had never, even for a moment, imagined that a man might put his mouth upon her, but when Lucien took a deep breath and buried his face between her thighs her world went white hot, her head snapping back against the mattress as constellations danced behind her eyelids. His nose brushed through her sparse curls even as his tongue snaked out to trace the line of her folds and the sound that left her lips was one she'd never imagined she could make. Desperate for some tether to ground her to the earth she reached out and caught his head in her hands, tangling her fingers in his hair and canting her hips to meet him, her thighs tightening reflexively around him.

"Oh,  _god,"_ she breathed, but just as she became accustomed to the wash of his breath against her he slipped his tongue inside her and she nearly fell to pieces, unable to think, unable to breathe, utterly shattered by the thought that this was  _Lucien,_ doing such a thing, bent on nothing more than her own pleasure. It was heady and erotic and she could not think, could not breathe, could not move, could only give herself over to him utterly. Still he moved, lips and tongue working in tandem, building her up and up until he shifted, and she nearly cried out in grief to think that he would leave her before his fingers replaced his tongue and his lips wrapped around the little bundle of nerves at her center and she tumbled from the cliff. She might well have been weeping; she could not say, for as her body trembled and shook his fingers thrust relentlessly inside her, curling against her, his lips working over and over her until her first climax became a second in a wave so strong and fierce her consciousness deserted her and she was left drowning in sensation alone, so sweet and so sharp and so all consuming that if she had sense enough to hear she would have heard herself screaming his name.

Still he caressed her, guiding her through until she was whimpering and begging him  _please, please, please,_ though she could not say what she was asking for. Lucien seemed to know, though; he kissed her tender sex one last time and then rose to tower over her, his gaze so very soft and so very open that Jean could do nothing save open her arms to him, begging him to let her hold him.

And he did, dropping his hands to the mattress on either side of her head, lowering himself atop her to kiss her sweetly, the taste on his tongue so unfamiliar she knew it had to have been her own. She whimpered against his lips, and felt the brush of his beard on her face as he smiled. Jean wrapped her arms around him, her thighs rising up cradle his hips, trying to pull him down, desperate for the heat of him, but it seemed that Lucien had other ideas. He kissed her one last time and then he was moving, reaching between them to remove her bra before his hands returned to her, kneading her flesh gently as her back arched up to meet him. Somehow he was still dressed, and Jean had had quite enough of that; as his lips descended upon her breast her own hands wove between them, scrambling against the buttons of his waistcoat. She was still trembling in the aftermath of her release, however, her fingers heavy and uncoordinated, and even that small task seemed beyond her.

Thankfully, Lucien was still in possession of his faculties; he laughed, not unkindly, at her pitiful attempt to undress him before he rose to his feet once more, and began to remove his clothes himself, Jean's eyes watching him hungrily all the while. For a moment she was starkly reminded of the first time he'd held her, when he'd stood above her naked form and stripped himself bare in the light of the stars, and as beautiful as he had been then he was all the more desirable now, now that she knew him, body and soul, knew how he could care for her, how he could touch her, and in that moment Jean knew that no matter what happened, no matter the cost, there would never be another man for her.

In a moment he was bare, his cock proud and straining for her, and once more she lifted her arms to him, and once more he slipped over her body, nestling himself into her embrace.

His lips traced the line of her neck down towards her breast even as her hands wandered over the marks upon his back; she had not had the time to familiarize herself with his scars, before, had been too frightened and too desperate to take the time, but now she found she wanted them, wanted to know each of them, their placement and their cause, wanted to kiss every last mark upon his body and tell him without words that he was safe, here with her. But then his lips wrapped around her nipple and the movement of her hands faltered as he once more began to ravish her. She clung to him, drowning in the wanton desperation only he could inspire, and ground her hips against him, the brush of his cock against her bare thigh drawing a whimper from deep in the back of her throat.

"Please," she breathed again, when it seemed that he was content to linger where he was; at her words his mouth released her, and in the wake of his lips she saw that he had left another mark upon her skin, and she could not find it in her heart to be cross with him. Her heart was his already, and she would not stop him laying claim to her body as well.

With a careful hand he reached between them, dragging himself over her folds, spreading the wetness he found there and drawing a mewling, eager sound from her. Lucien might have been content to take his time but Jean was through with waiting, and so on his next pass she lifted her hips to him invitingly, and at last he gave in. With a groan he buried himself inside her, and the force of his thrust tore the breath from her lungs. He filled her so completely there was no room left for breath, for doubt, for fear; there was only this, the thickness of his shaft driving into her, long and slow and deep, and the pull of her warmth around him, desperate for everything he had to give.

The rhythm he set was slow and tortuous; this was no race for release. Jean could not find the words for this, for the burning of his eyes, pupils blown dark and wide with longing, longing for  _her,_ his face so close to her she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her cheek. Those strong arms she loved so well supported him above her, and Jean wrapped her hands around the corded muscles of his forearms, anchoring herself to him as she wrapped her legs tight around his hips, meeting him thrust for languid thrust. She arched into him, casting her head back so that on the next pass his lips collided with her collarbone, his tongue darting out to taste the sheen of sweat there. They moved together as graceful as a pair of dancers, the soft sounds of their coupling and the beat of their hearts all the orchestra they needed. Each time he drove within her Jean was overcome with the fullness, the  _rightness_ , the sheer ecstasy of him; she closed her eyes, unable to face the magnitude of the emotion that gripped her.

And still he moved, so long and so slow and so steady that she had forgotten everything else outside this room, the softness of the sheets that smelled of him, the wet, wanton sounds of their union, the force of his cock plunging into her again and again as she once more began to crest the wave of her own release. As if he could read her mind Lucien redoubled his efforts, speeding up the movements of his hips, grinding against her as he ducked his head and sank his teeth into the curve of her breast. The flash of pain was enough to do her in and she tumbled from her peak, so caught up in bliss she could only whimper, softly. Still, though, he did not stop; the fluttering of her inner muscles around him only seemed to urge him on and he shifted, raising himself up, changing the angle between them as he began to pound into her in earnest.

"Lucien," she gasped his name, spiraling into sensation as he coaxed her yet higher, to a point of delirium she had never before ascended, and above her he smiled, reckless and wild, and answered her.

"Jean," he breathed, "my Jean."

Over and over again, he spoke those words  _my Jean,_ punctuating them each time with another powerful thrust until his control snapped, and the speed of his movements became too furious for his words to keep pace. Jean cried out as she broke a fourth and final time, the joy of it so painful for a moment she thought she must surely have died. She could not breathe, could not think, could not move, could not even hear Lucien roaring his release as her inner walls clamped down upon him like a vise, refusing to let him leave her, ever again. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, exhaustion and emotion having overcome her utterly, and Lucien collapsed against her, burying his face in her hair, his cock still nestled tightly inside her.

* * *

She was sleeping now, blissful in repose. When Lucien had come back to his senses Jean had been all but comatose, pliant as a doll when he gathered her in his arms and tucked her under the duvet beside him. As she rested she had wrapped herself around him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her arm slung out across his chest, her legs tangling with his own beneath the duvet. Her curls were in wild disarray across his pillowcases, pins sticking out at odd angles, and he would have removed them himself for the sake of her comfort but he could not bear the thought of moving, not now, not when he held everything he had ever wanted, warm and safe in the shelter of his arms.


	4. Chapter 4

He found her in the sunroom, just as Mattie said he would. Strange, that he should come home to find Mattie waiting for him, telling him in her own quiet way that Jack had gone and Jean was in need of him. He often wondered if, over the course of the last few months as Jean found her way to his bed with increasing regularity, Mattie had noticed the change in circumstances between them. If she had noted the way his hand lingered at the small of his housekeeper's back, the way Jean's cheeks flushed sometimes when he stood too near, no doubt recalling something untoward and delicious that had taken place between them only minutes before. Had it occurred to Mattie to wonder, he asked himself, if perhaps relations between the doctor and his housekeeper were rather more familiar than they ought to be? Somehow, the fact that Mattie was waiting for him, that she should direct him straight to his lover's arms, seemed to be all the proof he needed. There was no way, he realized as he made his way through the house, drawn ever closer to his Jean as a ship to the horizon, that Mattie did not suspect anything, but her quiet words as he'd arrived home felt rather like a blessing of sorts. She was not cross or disparaging, did not make sly suppositions across the dinner table, and he took a certain comfort from that fact.

His lover was working in the sunroom, just as Mattie said. He paused for a moment, watching her through the blinds, carefully tending to her flowers with such gentle devotion it nearly stopped his heart. The last few days had been enlightening, to the say least; though he knew Jean loved her sons, loved them fiercely, this had been his first chance to actually watch her interacting with one of them, to see how she was, as a mother, as a woman, and not just his housekeeper and sometime bedmate. Oh, he had watched her with Danny and Mattie, feeding them and chiding them and counselling them, but to see her with her own flesh and blood, the man who had grown from the child she carried within her own body, was earth shattering to Lucien.

Fierce and strong and brave; he knew she could be all of those things, had seen it in her, time and time and again. What he had not seen, not since the night he first took her into his arms, the night she confessed her loneliness and he sought to ease it in whatever way he could, was just how very fragile she could be. She loved her son with everything she had, stood toe to toe with an angry mob to defend him, had wept and proclaimed his innocence to Lucien with the earnest sort of certainty only a mother could possess, but the hopelessness in her eyes spoke louder than any words ever could.  _Yes,_ she loved her son, would move heaven and earth for him, fight for him, die for him, but she  _knew_ , somewhere deep in her heart, that he was not a good man. There was nothing Lucien knew of that could so completely devastate her the way her son's behavior had done, nothing that could wreck her, bring her to knees, the way that Jack's spiteful words and wild nature had done.

_What must it have been like for her,_ he asked himself as he watched her at work,  _all alone, with two young boys to take care of?_ The elder of the two, Christopher, was a fine lad to hear Jean tell it, a Lieutenant in the Army and wed to a nice girl. Lucien had his doubts, regarding just how fine young Christopher was, given that from the day Lucien took up residence in the house Christopher had not rung his mother once, had not written to her, had not visited her. Oh, she had gone to his wedding, spent Christmas with him, but the lad had made no such effort on her behalf. Lucien rather thought Jean deserved better than that; he knew little of her life before he'd met her, and each new piece of her history revealed to him only sorrow and lament. To his mind she was lovely, brighter than the sun, and he could not bear to see her so downtrodden.

He squared his shoulders, determined to speak to her, to soothe her if he could, and entered the sunroom. She straightened up as she saw him, prim and proper and perfect as ever in her neat blouse and tight skirt, though the bandage on her hand gave him pause. Those fools, those malicious, drunken louts had hurt her, had hurled her upon the ground and scorned her, all because of Jack. Just the thought of it made his blood boil; he would have smote every last one of them into the dirt but for the ragged sound of her voice, begging him to stop.

"Jean," he said softly as he approached her.

She offered a smile, bright and brittle, wiping the dirt from her hands. She was trying, he knew, to put on a brave face, to pretend that her heart wasn't broken into a thousand pieces.

"I should make you something to eat," she said briskly, but he demurred at once. He didn't want her false smiles, her solicitude, her endless attempts to make everything better. Lucien wanted  _Jean,_  as she was, wanted her truth and her devastation, her heartbreak and her rapture. Somehow over the course of the last few months he had fallen in love with her, quite completely. He knew it now, felt it in the terrible pounding of his heart in his chest as he looked at her. Though she had told him, time and time again, that what they shared was wrong, that it was folly, he knew she could no more turn away from him than he could cast her aside. They were bound together, now, two halves of the same somewhat battered whole. When he held her in his arms she was honest, and it was that honesty he wanted from her now.

Taking a deep breath and steeling himself for the potential fallout Lucien stepped closer to her, though he veered away at the last moment, coming to a stop by the window, providing her some reprieve from the intensity of his concern. It was too much for her to bear sometimes, he knew, his longing for her, and he so desperately wanted to get this conversation right, not to scare or startle her but to soothe her. After all, Lucien knew what it was to be spurned by a child; his own daughter had sent him away, had refused to call him  _father_ , and though their relationship had warmed somewhat as he doggedly wrote her letter after letter, she remained distant from him. He dearly hoped that in the sharing of this grief they had in common Jean might come to trust him just that little bit more, might lean on him, might give him more of herself than she ever had before.

"Jack's gone, eh?" he asked her softly.

"Yes," she answered, her voice so very soft and so very sad that it took every ounce of restraint he possessed to stop him pulling her into his arms right then.

"He'll come back," Lucien said with a confidence he did not feel. Behind him Jean had stopped working; he could sense the tension radiating from her, even from a distance.

"No, I'm not so sure about that."

The resignation in her voice, the fact that she had given up hope of her son ever becoming the man she had hoped for him to be, was untenable to Lucien. So many of her dreams had been shattered, he knew, and this last indignity was too much for anyone to bear, least of all a woman as good and kind and gentle as Jean.

"We can't give up on them, can we?" he asked, trying to encourage her, trying to discern what it was she needed from him. "They'll always be our children."

And for a moment, a single shining instant, he imagined that they were, that Li and Jack were his and Jean's together, that he and this beautiful woman were a pair, united in the raising and the loving of their children. Of course Jack was not his son, no more than Li was Jean's daughter, but he had felt a certain protectiveness, a certain desire to steer the lad onto the right path, that had been entirely too fatherly to be classed as simple concern. Did Jean feel that way about his wayward daughter? He wondered. Did she long to know more about this piece of Lucien's heart, did she whisper a prayer that he might one day be reconciled to his child? Lucien had long since stopped praying, but if ever he did, he would say a prayer for Jean, that her mother's heart might be comforted by the love of her sons, that they might be kind to her, as she had been to them, and make their little family whole once more.

"And when he does decide to come back, well, he'll always be welcome here."

It was important to Lucien that Jean know that, that she understand that he believed this thing between them to be lasting, that he had no designs on a future without her in it. Whenever Jack came round, however long it took, Lucien wanted Jean to be comfortable, and happy, waiting for him in this house that seemed to whisper her name at every turn. This house that was  _hers,_ just as much as it was his.

"This isn't his home, Lucien," Jean answered, and in the trembling of her voice he heard the words she could not say. This thing between them, fragile and beautiful as it was, did not come with a commitment, with promises, with any certainty for a woman like Jean, a woman who had laid her livelihood and her reputation on the line for the sake of the affection she bore him. Her position would always be tenuous, so long as they continued in this fashion, and for the first time Lucien realized just how vast the implications of that uncertainty were. Jean's very future hung in the balance, and Lucien keenly felt his own complicity. Until that moment he had been quite content to carry on as they were, but, truth be told, he had risked very little when he took Jean into his bed. She had risked her all, and she deserved more from him.

"It's your home, Jean," he told her firmly.  _Our home,_ he wanted to say, but he did not want to push too hard, not now, when Jean's heart was cracked and bleeding.

Behind him Jean let out a ragged sob, trying to muffle the sound as she covered her mouth with one delicate hand while with the other she reached for him blindly. Her fingers found purchase against his arm and he drew her into his embrace at once, holding her close as she buried her face against his neck and wept. For several long moments he simply held her, breathing deeply as the smell of the flowers and the scent of Jean's hair overwhelmed him utterly, as she trembled in his arms, her tears wet and cold against the tanned skin of his neck. The late afternoon sun streamed in through the high windows, painting everything in shades of gold and warming him through and through. He had no need to ask her what was wrong, and likewise did not try to reassure her, to stem the flood of her tears. Jean was weeping for her son, for the shattering of her dreams, for her uncertain future, for everything she'd lost and everything she was too frightened to claim for herself. There were no words he could say to ease her pain, for it was boundless. Nothing but time and tenderness would soothe her, and so he made a silent promise to give her both, as much as he had to give, for as long as she would have him. Perhaps their position was too tenuous for him to speak such a promise aloud just yet, but he made it just the same, deep in the sanctuary of his own heart.

Ever so slowly she brought herself back under control and as she did she leaned back in his embrace, just far enough to look him in the eye. And  _oh,_ but her eyes sliced right through him, huge and bright as the stained glass windows of her church, her tears sparkling like diamonds on her lashes. With every shallow breath she took her breasts brushed against his chest as her hands caught his lapels, held him close to her. It was too much; his love of her, her glorious grief, the warmth of the sun and the heady scent of soil and flowers upon her skin. Lucien could not stop himself and reached for her at once, catching her face in his hands, marveling once again at finely she was built, at the exquisite curve of her cheek, the thick fan of her eyelashes, the line of her full lips. Her skin was warm beneath his palms, and as he looked at her he felt something shift in the air between them. This was familiar now, this tension, this want, this need, the sudden widening of her pupils, the sudden jump of her pulse at the crook of her neck, the sudden flush of heat that filled his entire body at the had come together perhaps a dozen times, all heat and lust and rushing, damning want, and though he had come to recognize the signs of longing in her it was still a new enough experience that it set his heart to racing every time.

"Jean," he breathed her name, his voice low and husky, gruff with desire. Her eyes had locked onto his lips, as if she could think of nothing save kissing him once again. Lucien rather thought he knew how she felt; now that he had discovered the taste of her, the heat of her, the thrill of her thighs wrapped tight around his waist as he buried himself inside her, the very thought of her having again was enough to drown out any sense of propriety or decorum. Never mind that it was the middle of the day, never mind that Mattie was home and that any sound they made would likely carry to where she sat in the parlor, never mind that Jean was not his wife, never mind that she was grieving; he wanted her, and the way she looked at him now was enough to tell him that she felt much the same. Perhaps this was not a good moment for them to come together, perhaps her emotions were too raw, her heart too battered, but Lucien dearly wanted to show her that she was not alone, that she belonged here, in this house, with him, and when the words would not come he chose to speak to her in another language altogether.

He ducked his head, drawn ever closer to her as if by some unfathomable magnetic force, his hands still gently cupping her cheeks as Jean shifted, moving that much closer to him, granting him her own silent permission, begging him without words to continue what he'd started.

The shrill ringing of the phone from inside the house made her jump in his arms. Her eyes flickered towards the door as her sense of duty battled with her desire to remain in his arms. For his part Lucien refused to let her go; it seemed to him that they had been on the cusp of something important, something more than just a quick tumble on the leaf-strewn floor, and he could not bear the thought of letting her go.

"I should get that," she whispered, though her eyes, huge and pleading, told him that she wanted to do no such thing.

"They'll call back," he answered, and before she could protest he lowered his lips to hers. Jean sighed and slide her arms around his neck, forgetting the phone and her responsibilities at once as she gave himself over to him utterly.

_I love you, I love you, I love you,_ Lucien thought, a mantra he did not dare speak aloud as his tongue surged into her mouth and she whimpered in his arms. For he did love her, had loved her for months now, and even if he could not yet say it aloud he needed her to know that he would hold her, cherish her, for all his days if only she would let him. He needed her to know that though the world was dark and cruel he would offer her the sanctuary of his arms whenever she asked it of him, would cradle her close and protect her from those who wished to do her harm. His hands tangled in her dark hair, careful to avoid the pins that so artfully held her curls in place while still trying to hold her as close as he possibly could, and in his arms Jean trembled and surged up towards him, small and warm and alive beneath his hands.

* * *

Jean had not anticipated this, when Lucien first entered the sunroom, when he spoke to her softly of her son, of  _our children,_ but now that he was kissing her she found that his touch, his heat, his love - what little of it he could spare for her - was exactly what she needed. Jack had gone, and taken all her hopes with him; from the day he was born she had whispered prayers that he would be good, that he would be well, that he would be happy, and it would seem that all those prayers had been for naught, because he remained wild and angry and too distant for her to reach. For so many years Jean had berated herself, had poured over his every indiscretion and asked herself what she had done wrong, what more she could have done to help him, to stop his latest calamity, but the truth had finally sunk in that afternoon, when he had returned to the house to pack a bag and kiss her briefly on the cheek before walking out of her life, perhaps for good. It did not seem to matter what she did, if she chided him or gave him space, if she cooed over him and fixed his supper and darned his socks or if she ignored him utterly; Jack had become his own man, and his decisions were his own.  _Yes,_ she wanted better for him than the path that he had chosen, but she could not change it now.

Jack had left, and Jean's heart had been aching in the wake of his departure, but then Lucien had come to her, and with a few simple words he had bolstered her flagging soul. He assured her that no matter what he had done her son would be welcome in that house, assured her that the house was just as much as hers as it was his, that she belonged there, with him, and those reassurances blessed her, revived her after the tumult of the last few days. Whatever this thing was between them, wherever they were going, whatever anyone else thought of them, Jean knew she cared for him too deeply to withdraw from him now, and so she took his words and held them deep inside her heart, swore that she would give him all she had, that together they would make this place their home, for as long as they could. He had made her no promises but he had given generously of himself, and Jean knew she could ask no more of him, not now, not yet.

And then he kissed her, and with lips and tongue and broad hands he had overwhelmed her utterly, had banished every thought in her head save for him, the heat of him, the taste of him, the furious want he inspired every time he touched her. She was grateful for this, for she no longer wanted to think, no longer wanted to worry; all she wanted was him.

And he gave it to her; with his hips he guided her, one stumbling step at a time until her back collided with the wall, arching her breasts against his chest as his hands found purchase on her bum, grinding forward against him even as he continued to kiss her, furiously, passionately, without reservation. Jean ran her fingers through his hair, over and over again, mussing his perfect style, wanting to see his hair softly curling beneath her hands. It was a sight she had only seen once or twice before, as they often stole these moments in the middle of the day after he had already tamed his wild blonde mane. The first time she had seen that riot of blonde curls she had been so enchanted, so delighted by the way they made him look so much younger, so much softer than he did during the day, and she wanted that again, wanted the honest truth of him.

Lucien growled against her mouth and pressed her still closer to the wall, leaning into her as his hands slid up her thighs beneath her skirt, catching her bum in his hands once more and lifting her easily. For her part Jean went with him willingly, a breathy little whimper escaping her as her skirt bunched around her hips and her legs wrapped tight around his waist. He was brave and strong and real and  _hers,_  and so she shifted in his arms, her hands running across his scalp, drawing him ever closer to her, their bodies wound so tightly together there was hardly room left for breath between them. Lucien's hands weren't idle, either; he kneaded her through the soft satin of her knickers, thrusting her hips against him again and again so that she could feel the heat of his slowly hardening length through his trousers. At the sensation Jean whimpered against his lips, throwing her head back to rest upon the wall with a sigh of reckless abandon.

"You belong here, Jean," he whispered, taking advantage of the moment to drop a series of suckling kisses against the smooth column of her throat, his hands never once abandoning their exploration of her, though they grew bolder with each passing second, the tips of his fingers curling down against her, brushing against the line of her folds and drawing a mewling sound of want from her lips. Jean wasn't sure what he meant, if he was trying to say that she belonged in that house or that she belonged in his arms, and to be perfectly frank, she didn't much care. Though his ministrations had left her breathless and unable to speak she knew she needed to answer him, needed to show him that regardless of where she belonged,  _he_ belonged here, in the soft cradle of her thighs. With that in mind she used the hands still running over and over his hair to cradle his head gently, canting his head back as she shifted forward in his arms so that now she was the one dragging her lips and tongue against his neck, loosening his tie as she went, desperate for more of him, though she did not bother to remove it entirely. Though they had fallen together like this quite a few times now Jean had not yet taken the opportunity to trace the corded muscles of his thick, tanned neck quite the way she wanted to; always he was urgent, rushing, powerful, sure, and now she wanted some of that surety for herself. The salty taste of his skin beneath her tongue had her grinding down against his hips and drew a bone-deep groan rumbling up from the depths of his chest. The tips of her fingers traced his hairline, feathering up and down the back of his neck as she gently scraped her teeth against the thick vein throbbing along the length of his throat and in response he bucked against her, the hardness of his cock between her legs sending shivers of want racing up and down her spine.

" _Christ,_ Jean," he growled, trembling in her embrace like a race horse waiting eagerly at the starting gate. It would be up to her, she knew, to release him, to unleash the power and the need that always burned beneath his skin, just for her. With that in mind she kissed her way back down his neck and then without warning sank her teeth into the juncture of his shoulder.

It would seem that was sufficient to shatter what remained of his self-restraint for she found herself slammed back against the wall once more as his strong hands tore the knickers from her body; before she could adjust to the sudden change in circumstances he had thrust two thick fingers into her wet heat, his palm grinding hard against her clit as his free hand remained clenched bruisingly tight against her bum.

The sudden ferocity of his advances drew a ragged cry from her lips, but Lucien fell upon her in a moment, kissing her, hard, drawing her lip between his teeth even his fingers plunged into her, harder and harder, deeper and deeper on each pass.

"You'll have to be quiet," he growled against her kiss-swollen lips, even as he forced her ever closer to her peak. "Mattie's inside."

Jean whimpered, unable to think, her entire being focused on his hands, on the way his fingers curled inside her. Wanton and wanting she ground down against his hand, and it was his turn to drag his teeth along the column of her throat as she cast her head back against the wall, arms and legs clinging to him so fiercely it was a wonder he found the room to move his hand between them at all. It was too much; the endless press of his fingers inside her, the heel of his hand grinding furiously against the little bundle of nerves at her center, her longing for him, the strength of his arms, the promise of all that was to come, the terrible struggle of keeping her voice down when all she wanted was to scream her pleasure; with one last furious thrust of his hand he shattered her utterly, her body rising up as if of its own volition, her inner muscles clamping down hard against his fingers, holding him tight inside her as she trembled and shook and fell apart in his arms, the cry she longed to release suffocating her, her heart hammering against her chest.

Boneless and spent she collapsed against him, grateful for his two strong hands as he slipped out of her and held her close, his fingers leaving wet trails against her heated skin. She rested her forehead against his shoulder, gasping, keenly aware that while he had brought her such pleasure he had found no release himself, that he was by no means finished with her, trembling at the thought.

"Jean," he whispered her name, his lips close by her ear, and in response she only nodded, her hands slipping down the broad plane of his chest, snaking between them, intent upon his belt buckle. They were both still fully dressed, though her knickers lay in a ruined heap upon the floor and his tie hung loose rakishly around his neck, the mark of her lips still lingering on his skin just above his unbuttoned collar, and the thought of doing this, with him, here, with the sun shining brightly upon them, so hungry for one another they couldn't even bother to remove their clothes, sent another rush of warmth flooding through her body. Perhaps it had dawned on Lucien, as well, for as she unfastened his belt and started work on his buttons he removed one hand from her bum, placing it upon her breast in a moment, kneading her flesh through her thin blouse and causing her hands to slip against his waist as all reason left her. He was not gentle, but she did not always want him to be, and the feel of his hands upon her, anchoring her to him, was intoxicating. She arched into his touch and sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, returning once more to her task.

In a moment she had his trousers unfastened and he lifted her up a bit higher, pressing her flush against the wall with the broad plane of his chest so that he could slide his trousers and trunks down off his hips, kicking them to the side and immediately returning to his perusal of her over her clothes. Jean felt as if she were burning alive beneath his touch, hot and wet and wanton and ready for him, and so as his tongue traced the shell of her ear she reached between them and caught his hardness in her hands, tracing the shape of him with a featherlight touch. For her efforts she was rewarded with a deep growl of satisfaction and the sting of his teeth as he caught her earlobe between them.

" _Please,_ " she whimpered, and in response he said nothing, only drove into her, hard, his lips descending upon hers to silence the sound of her desperate cries.

Somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind Jean hoped that she would never get used to this, that each time he sank himself inside her it would feel like this, all-consuming, more righteous than a prayer, more powerful than any longing she had ever felt before. So far each time he took her she had been left shaking and aching with a terrible pleasure, and she felt it again now, felt the strain in the muscles of her thighs wrapped around his hips, felt the glorious way he filled her, utterly, his lips fastened hard to hers and drinking her in, no room left between them for hands or doubts or fears. Her hands scrabbled against the smoothness of his waistcoat, hungry for his skin, rucking up his shirt until at last her fingers found purchase against the warm skin of his back. Her red painted nails dug in deep, holding him against her as again and again he surged within her, each movement of his hips slamming her own back against the wall, the breath leaving her lungs on each pass with a desperate little whimper, a sound he swallowed with his own lips. She wanted to throw her head back, to let loose a cry of pleasure, but she knew she could not, not with Mattie in the house, could not risk losing this connection to him, could not risk losing the opportunity to do this again, and her whole body trembled with the effort of remaining silent.

In an attempt to catch his breath Lucien tore his mouth from hers, resting his forehead against her own as with his hands he shifted her, raised her up just a little bit, changing the angle of his thrusts inside her and setting stars to dancing behind her eyelids. Each time he breathed out Jean felt the wash of it upon her lips, her nose nestled alongside his own, pressed hard to his cheek, her wetness clenching and fluttering around him, the hard length of him inside her almost more than she could bear. She ground down against him each time he thrust up into her, searching for the friction that would send her spiraling into release, and when she found it she was forced to press her lips hard to his neck, the sounds she could not contain muffled against his heated skin.

" _Christ,"_ he said again, and though ordinarily she would have admonished him for such blasphemy, would blush scarlet later to think he said such a thing while he was buried to hilt inside her, in the moment she could only hold him, was forced to acknowledge that this love made her feel closer to heaven than she had in many a long year. Her glory was his downfall as his thrusts grew haphazard and desperate, and so she once more dragged her teeth along his throat in the way she'd discovered he liked and in a moment he was spilling himself inside her. Later she would count the days and worry, would curse herself for being so foolish, for letting him have her, all of her, every time he took her, but in the moment she wanted this, wanted him, wanted to never let him go.

Lucien's legs were trembling with the effort of holding them both upright and so he turned rather abruptly, pressing his back to the wall as he slowly slid to the floor, still buried inside her, still holding her close. When he was seated, her thighs still wrapped around his waist, his hands still holding her close, she laid her head down against his shoulder, gasping, relieved, at peace. For days now her life had been chaos and tumult and heartbreak but this one thing made sense, this one truth came shining through the darkness; she loved Lucien Blake, with all heart, though she be damned for it.


	5. Chapter 5

Jean's hands were trembling as she closed the door behind her. All day she had been waiting for this moment, waiting for peace, for silence, for solitude, for the cover of darkness, waiting to pluck the pins from her hair and exhale the breath that she had been holding since she woke in the early hours before dawn, sick to her stomach and feeling faint.

_Seven days,_ she thought dimly as she carefully began to prepare herself for bed, slipping out of skirt and blouse, hanging them both up in her wardrobe before settling on her little bench to let down her hair and wipe the makeup from her face.

_Seven days late._

Her hair tumbled loose around her face, and for a moment she simply stared at herself, the wrinkles around her eyes, the grey at her temples. At forty-three, Jean knew she wasn't too old, wasn't too far gone to worry about such things, but some days she felt her age more than others, and this was one of those days. She felt weary, exhausted, her limbs too heavy to move, and she did not want to confront the fear that had been swirling in her mind from the moment she woke up.

For months now she had been caught in a dream too beautiful to be real, tending to this fine old house she loved so much, looking after friends and lodgers, tumbling into Lucien's arms whenever the desire rose within her, ignoring the voice in the back of her mind that whispered to her, told her such sinful pleasures could not be enjoyed without consequence. That dream had shattered all around her in the early morning stillness as she emptied the contents of her stomach as quietly as she could, shaking like a leaf. Countless times she had let Lucien take her, had given no thought to timing or the potential fallout. She had flouted the laws of the church, had ignored the whisperings of her conscience, and now she was well and truly terrified that she would have to face the consequences.

With her face now fresh and clean she rose on legs wobbly as a newborn colt and began to strip out of her undergarments, letting them fall haphazardly wherever they landed until at last she was completely bare. For a moment she stood, watching herself in the mirror, wondering. Could it be, she asked herself, that the time had come for her to pay penance for her sins with Lucien? Was she even now pregnant with his child? And oh,  _God,_ what would become of her if she were?

Unable to face herself a moment longer she turned away and collapsed atop the duvet, closing her eyes in the darkness and struggling to catch her breath. She was a week late, and had woken in the morning to a sudden wave of nausea that had left her almost as quickly as it struck.  _Not again,_ a little voice whispered in the back of her mind.  _You can't go through this again._ It had been bad enough the first time, nineteen and scared and forced to marry Christopher quick before her belly began to show. There would be no shotgun wedding this time, no quick slide of a gold band on her finger to dismiss the whispers of the biddies in town. She was almost certain that Lucien would not marry her, but even if he would be content with such an arrangement she wasn't entirely sure that she would accept him. She wasn't entirely sure that she was ready to bind herself to another man, to change her name, to start afresh.

For a time she lay, still and quiet, atop the duvet on her little bed at the top of the stairs. The house was all in silence, darkness thick as a blanket upon her, and in that darkness she trailed the tips of her fingers against the soft skin of her belly. If she was right, if she was pregnant, it was far too early for her to show, but she could imagine it, as she lay here now, could imagine the swell of a child beneath her skin. She had felt it before, of course, knew every step of that dance.

_Are you in there?_  she asked this would-be, could-be child. A tear trailed, silver and silent, down her cheek.  _If you're there_ , she thought,  _please know, I'm not crying because I don't want you. I'm crying because this is not the moment for you, little one_. How difficult would life become, she wondered, with a new baby and Jean past forty, when everyone in town found out that she had been foolish enough to tumble with her employer and walk away pregnant? She couldn't stay in this house, she knew, couldn't bear to be so close to Lucien, who she wanted so desperately, who could not give her the sort of life she needed. Jean wasn't strong enough, brave enough, to face the whispers, to face Lucien's disappointment; she would have to flee, start again somewhere else, and in her bones she felt far too old and far too weary for such an undertaking.

_Then again_ , she mused as she lay there,  _maybe this would be just what we need_. For in truth Jean loved him, loved him fiercely, loved him desperately, and she saw the way he softened, when she was around, saw him trying, with all his might, to be a better man, for her sake. Maybe if they were backed into this corner, forced to face their feelings for one another head on… _or maybe this will be just the thing to send him running, never to be seen or heard from again._ He was so unpredictable sometimes, her Lucien, and she did not know in truth how he might respond to such news.  _I may soon find out,_ she thought grimly,  _whether I want to or not._

* * *

_Two weeks later…_

For weeks now Jean had been acting quite strangely, and Lucien could not discern the how or the why of it until that morning, when Mattie softly whispered to him that it was the anniversary of Christopher's death. He had breathed a sigh of relief upon discovering that, convinced that this day was the cause of the storm that had been brewing in his house for weeks, was the cause for Jean's distant demeanor, for the way she slipped away each time his hand fell upon the curve of her hip, for the way she had begun to spend her evenings closeted in her room upstairs instead of knitting in the sitting room by his side. Lucien knew what it was, to lose a spouse, to find out too late that the person he loved more than anyone else had died, that there was nothing he could do to bring her back, and so he understood in a way Jean's reaction. This was a day full of bad memories, but he felt she ought to be allowed the chance to acknowledge them. She so often buried her true feelings beneath a steely, presentable veneer, so practiced at carrying on regardless of how dire her circumstances had become. Within her chest there beat a heart full of passion, he knew, and he wanted to help her, wanted her to know that she was safe with him, that she did not need to hide the way she was feeling.

And then he had taken her out to the Dempster's farm, and everything had fallen into place.

_This was our farm, Lucien,_ she had told him sadly, and he had stared at her as if he had never seen her before, the breath stolen from his lungs as he was forced to confront the breadth and the scope of the life that she had lived before she met him. Based on the ages of her sons he had deduced that she and Christopher had married young, and as he stood beside her on the edge of the lettuce patch he tried to picture it, Jean at twenty, twenty-five, with a baby on her hip and dirt under her nails, working the land, tried to picture Christopher (who in his mind looked rather like Jack, with his thick, dark hair and fierce blue eyes) standing beside her. What sort of man had he been, Jean's husband, that all these many years after his death she still mourned him so devotedly?

For months now Lucien had carried his love of this woman as a secret deep within his heart, waiting, wondering when the moment would come, when would be the time to whisper to her softly everything he felt for her. Prudence had held him back; their position was precarious, he knew, with him being her employer, with her staunch faith, her reputation in the town having already taken a beating since he returned. That day on the farm had opened his eyes, had given him another reason to think he ought to keep the depth of his affection to himself; Jean still loved her husband, and he could see that love shining in her eyes. Over a decade had passed since his death and yet still she mourned him so deeply that she lashed out at her friends and refused to eat, her grey eyes stormy and full of hurt. How could Lucien, drunk and impulsive and broken as he was, ever hope to compete with such a love? Were the moments they stole together, chasing release in every corner of the house, all that he would ever have of her? What would wound her more grievously, he wondered, continuing on in this fashion or asking her for more, asking her for everything?

The questions had swirled through his mind all day long, and the evening brought him no respite as once again Jean slipped up the stairs and into her room the moment the last dish was dried and put away. Her silence grieved him, more than he could say, and so while he waited for Mattie to seek her own bed, waited for night to fall in earnest, he began to formulate a plan. He wanted to offer Jean what comfort he could, wanted her to know that he understood all too well her suffering, and he wanted, very much, to be a friend to her. If she would not have him in her bed, would not have him for a husband, he hoped that at least he would be allowed this much, would be allowed the opportunity to be her confidant, a support to her.

The moment he was assured of some privacy he made his way up the stairs and knocked once upon her door, softly. It was reckless, he knew, to come into this room so late at night; he had only been in this place once before, had sat on the little bench by her dresser drunk on the scent of her wafting in the air, trembling at his proximity to her beguiling femininity, knowing that this room was too soft, too gentle for the likes of him. But if she would not join him in the sitting room then he would have to come to her, and so he did.

It took a moment for the door to open, and when it did he could not stop himself from smiling, just a little.

She was truly beautiful, his Jean. At the moment she was wrapped in her fluffy pink robe, her curls soft and loose, her lips pale and pink without the usual bright red of her lipstick. His smile faded quickly, however, for those grey eyes were watchful and perturbed.

"Lucien," she hissed, clutching her robe tightly across her chest, hiding as much of her skin from him as she could. "What on earth are you doing?"

"I'm worried about you, Jean," he murmured, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Mattie. "I know you're upset and I...I just wanted you to know you can talk to me, Jean. About anything."

As he spoke her eyes softened, somewhat. The sadness lingered but the fear slipped away from her, and she loosened her grip on her robe.

"Come in, Lucien," she whispered, stepping aside so that he could brush past her and into her room.

Once more he was assaulted by an overwhelming wave of  _Jean_. The wireless playing softly by the bed, the pink wallpaper, her stockings hung over the mirror, the gentle waft of her perfume on the air; of every room in the house this was the one that was most unreservedly hers, and the touch of her hand spoke to him from every inch of that space. With a sigh she stepped away from him and settled herself on the end of her bed, tucking her legs up underneath her and looking at him expectantly. Realizing that an invitation had been extended he moved at once, sitting down on the bench by her dresser, close enough to reach out and touch her, if he dared, though he held himself back for her sake. He had come here to  _talk_ , and he was determined that they would, that he would not let his need of her distract him as it had so often done in the past.

"Mattie told me," he began. "About Christopher."

At once Jean's eyes darkened, as if she could not believe he would dare to speak her husband's name aloud, as if she were affronted at the notion of Lucien and Mattie talking about her behind her back, but he barrelled on, regardless. "And I wanted to remind you that I lost my wife during the war. You can talk to me, Jean. I do have some idea what you're feeling."

She opened her mouth as if to speak and then promptly closed it, lifting her hand to cover her mouth even as she looked away from him. It was a subconscious gesture, he knew, Jean's way of silencing herself when she was too close to crossing a line that her morals or her sense of propriety had drawn for her. He wanted to reach out and tug her hand away, wanted her to spill forth her every thought without censorship, but he did not touch her; the moment was too delicate, too fragile for such forwardness. So instead he waited, his heart aching as he watched her war with herself.

"It isn't just that," she breathed finally into the silence, and the sound of her voice, so small and so scared, absolutely terrified him. What could it be, he wondered, that would worry her so?

"I promised him, Lucien," she whispered brokenly. "I  _promised."_

* * *

It was always hard, this time of year, this day in particular, the anniversary of the day when two grey-faced men had shown up at her front door and informed her that her husband had been dead for six months. Nevermind that over a decade had passed, nevermind that her boys were grown and far from home, nevermind that she had come to terms with the loss; on this one day, every year, the memories came back to her, and on this one day, she let them, allowed herself to feel all the grief, the guilt, the shame, the rage. Christopher had been taken from her, driven from her side by pride and anger, struck down on some god forsaken island Jean would never see. He had never come back to her arms, had never heard her apologies, had been denied the chance to watch their children grow into young men. Jean would never know how Christopher might have looked, with grey in his hair and wrinkles on his face. Christopher had not grown old by her side, but he had promised her he would, and she had promised him the same.

That promise, more than anything, was what set Jean so on edge today. She had sworn to love him, with everything she had,  _til death do us part._ She had sworn unwavering devotion to him before God and their families, and tangled up in the sheets of their marital bed she had dragged her fingertips against his skin and whispered  _you, only you, forever. I swear._

Now, however, she had broken that promise. Until that night when Lucien found her in the garden Jean had been true to her word, had never known the touch of any man, save for her beloved Christopher. Now, though, she had given herself to Lucien, more times than she could count, had tumbled between the sheets with a man who was not her husband, a man who never would be. Jean had thrown away her promise, her commitment to Christopher, for the sake of a man her husband would have hated, a man he would have scorned for taking his pleasure with a woman he had no intention of keeping. Surely, she'd told herself, Christopher deserved better than this from her, deserved a wife who would be faithful to him as she had sworn she would be, and barring that, would at least be virtuous enough to wait until there was a ring on her finger before turning her back on his memory. Jean could not shake the sense she had disappointed him, somehow.

"I  _promised,_ " she said, a single tear escaping her, though she tried to hold it in.  _Do you understand, Lucien?_ She wondered, not daring to look at him.  _Do you hear what I'm saying to you?_

Perhaps he did, for he reached for her then, caught her hand in both of his own and cradled it gently, blue eyes watching her soft and full of something that she thought almost, maybe, might have been love. Earlier in the month she had thought she might have been pregnant with his child, had asked herself what would become of them, should such a thing come to pass. Jean would never know, for a few days after that long and terrible night she had woken to find that she was in fact not carrying a child, and that truth left her wounded and relieved, in almost equal measure. Jean loved babies, she always had, loved cradling them close, the smell of their little heads, the warmth of a little body pressed against her chest. She knew how to be a mother, how to care for a child, and the thought of a baby with Lucien's soft blonde curls was enough to bring tears to her eyes. There was a part of her, however small, that  _wanted_  that baby, but she knew that a child would be more catastrophe than blessing for them. A child deserved a family, whole and well, a steady, reliable home. Jean and Lucien could not provide that for an infant; they could provide no stability for themselves, and to add to their responsibilities would only serve to place them under an unbearable strain.

For two weeks now Jean's heart had been in tumult, first from the terror at the thought of a pregnancy, and then reeling from the torrent of emotions that filled her when she discovered that she was safe from that calamity, for now. Every moment had been a struggle, as Jean tried to focus on her work and her friends and her responsibilities, as she strove to remain standing beneath the weight of all her uncertainty. And yes, she had pushed Lucien away, certain that he would not be able to help her muddle through, but now he had come to her, was watching her, holding her so gently, offering his support, not tossing her back against the sheets but giving her a chance to tell him exactly what was on her mind.

_Can I do this?_ She asked herself.  _Can I tell him the truth?_ What would Lucien say, if she told him of the worries that had plagued her, of the child that could have been?

"I know you did, Jean," he said, pulling her back into their conversation. "I know you promised him, but he's gone. I'm sorry, love, but he is. Don't you think he'd want you to be happy?"

She nearly laughed aloud, for in truth she had not been happy for weeks now. She had not been happy when she was so scared, had not been happy when she was plagued by thoughts of divine retribution for her sins, had not been happy without the touch of Lucien's hands upon her skin. What would it take, she wondered, to make her happy again?

"Maybe so," she murmured. "Yes, he would want me to be happy, but I'm not, Lucien."

* * *

His heart broke, to hear her speak so honestly, and he answered her without thinking.

"What can I do, Jean? Please, tell me what to do," he all but begged her. There was nothing Lucien wanted more than to see her smile again, and he would do whatever it took to achieve that goal.

For a long moment Jean was still, her hand still clasped between his own, small and delicate and fragile beneath the breadth of his strong hands. And then she took a ragged breath, and spoke.

"Hold me, Lucien," she whispered brokenly.

And what else could he do in that moment? He was staring at Jean, his beautiful, brilliant Jean, her heart shattering right in front of him, listening to the soft sound of her gentle voice, asking him to hold her. There was nothing he wanted more than to comfort her, to reassure her, and so he was by her side in an instant. He settled himself on the end of the bed and pulled her into his arms, and she collapsed against him, one hand fisting in his shirt while she buried her face in the crook of his neck.

As he held her he felt his own heart breaking, just a little, giving way beneath the weight of his guilt and his shame. He had done this to her, he knew, had dragged her out of her comfortable, quiet life and into his own world of swirling shadows and uncertainties. Jean was everything to him, an angel sent to save him, but as he held her now he could not help but ask himself if she would have been better off without him, without the troubles he had brought to her door.

_You are the devil, Lucien Blake,_ she had told him once. And though at that time he had brushed off her words as no more than poetic exaggeration, now he could not help but wonder if there was some hint of truth to them. He had come to her in a moment of weakness and wanting and he had taken advantage of the opportunity, and every other opportunity that had presented itself in all the months since. Even now, when she seemed so sad and small and scared, when she was mourning for her husband and her own ruined virtue, the soft scent of her hair and the warmth of her lithe body pressed against his own had sent his thoughts running in one inevitable direction.

He wanted, very much, to see her smile again, to hear her laugh, to watch the grief and the guilt fade from her eyes, replaced by that cheerful, cheeky glint he had come to love. He wanted very much to assuage the shame she felt for the promise she had broken; Christopher had been dead and buried for over a decade now, and whatever promises Jean had made to him, Lucien rather thought that time and need had rendered them moot. It was clear Jean did not feel that way, and he did not know how to help her, what to do, where they would go from here. He had resolved himself to wait for her, to follow her lead, to grant her anything she asked, but she was not speaking now. She was only clinging to him, breathing deeply as her trembling slowly subsided. If this was all she wanted of him, then he would be more than happy to remain in that place, holding her close, for the rest of the night.

* * *

Jean had not felt like herself in days, too troubled by doubts and self-recrimination, longing for the touch of Lucien's hand and yet pulling herself away from him each time he reached for her, unable to bear the shame, unable to face the chaos that swirled through her mind each time she thought of going to bed with him again, risking finding herself once more in the same situation she had been in at the beginning of the month. The attempt was useless, however, for the longer she went without his touch the more lost, the more desolate she became. She  _loved_  Lucien, regardless of whether he felt the same, regardless of whether they ever spoke the words to one another. She  _loved_ him, and in his arms she felt safe, and whole, and well. Perhaps she would be damned for that love, perhaps one day it would cost her everything, everything she had, everything she would be, but she could not bear to deny her own longings for another moment. Later she would say her Hail Marys and her Our Fathers, would whisper her confession and hope that Father Emery would be better at keeping his silence than his predecessor had been. Later she would come up with a plan, decide how she and Lucien would handle things between them. In this moment, surrounded by the strength of his arms, the warm scent of his cologne, all she could think was how much she wanted him, how utterly he had overcome her, and so, taking a deep, ragged breath, she gave in.

Softly, slowly, she pressed her lips against the vein snaking up the length of his throat. Beside her Lucien did not move, did not speak, made no sound, but beneath her lips she felt the racing of his pulse, felt his arms tighten around her. Jean wanted more than this, more than the taste of his neck under her tongue, more than his silence, his self-restraint; Lucien loved her like the world was ending, tore through every piece of her with all the fury of a cyclone, and she wanted, more than anything, to be swept away by him once more.

"Lucien," she whispered against his skin, and when he did not answer she decided to move things along herself; she shifted in his arms, planting her palms against the hard muscles of his thighs, giving him a little squeeze as she nipped at his neck, sinking her teeth into his skin just hard enough to draw a growl from deep in the back of his throat.

" _Please,"_ she whispered, running her hands higher up on his thighs, the very tip of her finger glancing against his slowly-growing hardness where it strained against his trousers.

Whether it was the slide of her hands or the sting of her teeth or the soft sound of her begging that set him loose she would never know, but in truth it did not matter. One moment he was sitting beneath her still and hard as a stone, and in the next he had turned, had cast her down upon her back on the duvet and settled himself above her.

"Is this what you want, Jean?" he asked, his hands clenching hard around her hips, his knees pressed to the mattress on either side of her thighs, his face close and eyes intense as he gazed down at her.

" _Please,"_ she said again, and he was on her in a moment.

Jean did not want to think, did not want to worry, did not want to hurt another second longer. She wanted to sigh, and swell, and burst with love, and she wanted Lucien to surround her while she did, to carry her to the heights of ecstasy as he had proven himself so well-versed in doing so many times in the past. She wanted peace, and release, and absolution, and she could only hope that she had chosen the right path to find it. It was too late to worry, however, for the surge of his hips, the insistent slide of his tongue against her lips, the sure, diabolical movements of his hands as his thick fingers tugged at the tie of her robe, hungry for her skin, left her utterly incapable of speech.

* * *

He had to have her. She had asked in a breathless voice and his body had answered that call at once, hands intent on finding her skin even as he thrust shallowly against her thigh, the steady ache growing between his legs seeming to take on a life of its own. For two weeks he had not held her, had not touched her, had not been allowed the liberty to leave so much as a chaste kiss upon her cheek, and he was starving with want of her. He could not say what had made her change her mind, how she had gone from telling him in a voice dripping with sorrow that she regretted what they had done to wrapping herself in his embrace and begging him to do it again, but he had promised her that she could have whatever she desired of him, and he was not about to break that promise now, not now when her request so closely aligned with his own dire need.

Beneath him Jean was pliant and gasping, her delicate hands running over his hair, cradling his head against her as he devoured her neck, careful not to leave a mark while likewise determined to with lips and tongue and teeth set her to writhing beneath him once again. He had never known a woman quite like her, as lovely, as soft, as warm, as passionate, as responsive; when he'd first met her, all repressed want and lips set in a thin, judgmental line, he would never have imagined, even for a moment, that she could be as wanton, as hungry, as desperate as he and yet she had shown him, time and time again, just how wrong his early impressions of her had been. Jean was everything, sunlight and shadows and everything in between, and he needed her more than his next breath.

With deft hands he guided her, lifted and shifted and worked at the fabric that hid her from his view until at last she was gasping and gloriously naked beneath him. He took a moment to gaze at her, the soft slope of her belly, the sharp points of her hipbones, the neat swell of her breasts, the line of her thigh lifting, pressing, seeking against his own, the dark thatch of curls between her legs calling his name. Had there ever been anything in the world more beautiful than his Jean? Somehow he did not think so, but he had remarked upon her beauty many times before and he was hesitant to do it again lest she think it was only physical need that had brought him to her room this night. Yes, she was lovely, and yes his cock was crying out for her but the power she held over him was so much more than simple lust. She was clever, more clever than he, and she was kind, and she was soft, and she was brave, and he wanted her for those reasons, and a million others besides. Her beauty was only one of many things he craved about her.

Her breath was coming in ragged pants now, her hands rising up between them to attack his shirt buttons, but Lucien was too distracted, too overcome with need to waste his time on such matters. Let her try to undress him, then; he would attend to his own desires, and with that in mind he lowered his head and caught one dusky pink nipple between his teeth. She whimpered at the sting of it but she did not withdraw from him; her hands continued to struggle with his buttons and her hips bucked up against him, hungry for more. She liked that little bit of pain with her pleasure, he'd found; not too much, just enough to make her mewl, to allow her the space to let go of the rigid control she normally kept over herself and her responses and simply let her be, let her experience each moment of their coupling to the fullest.

In a moment his shirt was unbuttoned and his lips released their hold on her breast just long enough for him to peel shirt and vest from his body, his eyes darkening as he took in the marks his lips and teeth had left against her breast.  _Mine,_ he had called her, more than once, and she had never corrected him, had never warned him against leaving his mark on her body, had never chided him for taking such liberties, for making such assumptions. Maybe, just maybe, she wanted to be his just as much as he wanted her. Mark or no he knew that he belonged to her, body and soul, but he liked to watch her at work around the house, speaking softly to his patients, knowing that beneath her starched, pressed shirt she bore the outline of his lips against the curve of her breast. It was a secret thing, a private understanding they had reached, one that only they shared, and it meant everything to him.

"These, too," she gasped, tugging at his belt before he fell upon her once again. Lucien grumbled, resenting any task that would keep him from her even for a moment, but he knew that she was right and so he shifted above her, wriggling out of his trousers while she hummed with appreciation each time her burning skin brushed against his own. By the time his trousers hit the floor he was almost incapable of thought, needing to be inside her,  _now,_ knowing that they had been too long apart, that she was too lovely, that he was too eager to please her to waste time on soft whispered endearments and moving slow. Jean liked it sometimes, he knew, when things between them were hard and fast and powerful, and he hoped that tonight would be one of those times because he was not sure that he would be capable of holding himself back.

There was time enough for a little preamble, however, and so he captured her lips with his own even as he snaked a hand between them, searching out the heat of her core. Lucien was many things, but an inconsiderate lover was not among them. He did not want to give her more pain than she asked for, and he wanted to be sure that when he pushed himself inside her she would be ready for him, wet and willing and eager as he.

No woman he had ever known kissed him quite the way Jean did. She was not the most worldly lover or the most experienced he had ever taken, but there was something in the way she reached for him, her hand always finding its way to his neck, anchoring him to her, her thumb brushing against the line of his beard, her tongue insistent and tangling with his own, that touched him in a way he had never known. She liked to catch his plump bottom lip between her teeth, and he liked it when she did, liked to know that she could  _want_ , could  _need_ , could  _feel_ just as deeply as could he. For all her modesty and all her piety she could be wild, when he held her like this, and that wildness spoke to him, drew him in as a moth to a flame.

His fingers found the little bundle of nerves at her center, rubbed and pressed and ground against it even as his palm pressed hard to the line of her folds, feeling the warmth and the wet of her tender flesh against his skin.  _Are you ready, my darling?_ He wanted to ask, and yet he found himself quite beyond the point of speech.

There was no need for words, it would seem, no need to ask that question aloud for at that very moment Jean reached between them with the hand not currently cradling his neck and caught of his hardness, fingers encircling him, stroking him, guiding him ever closer to her. It was all the permission Lucien needed; he tore his lips from hers with a groan that was far too loud, given that Mattie was just down the hall

"Now, Lucien," she told him, her voice escaping her on a breathless gasp, and he was all to happy to comply.

With one hand on her hip and one hand on his shaft he guided himself to her, closing his eyes and struggling to contain the sound of his pleasure as he began to slide into her, long and slow. This was the deep breath before the plunge, the moment of eerie stillness before the deluge, when they were both of them holding their breath, shocked and grateful to find themselves in this position once again. A storm was roiling between them, gathering in strength, but they could savor this moment, and so they did, as Lucien slid ever deeper into her, as she canted her hips and opened herself up that much more to him, her hands scrabbling for purchase against the ridges of the scars upon his back.

And then he was fully seated within her, and she shivered, and let loose a breathy moan, and he was lost. He ghosted one hand along the back of her thigh, lifted her leg slightly, pressed it back towards her chest, raised himself up, and then drove into her with a fury and a reckless heat he had never before unleashed upon her. Jean's eyes went wide and she threw her head back amongst the pillows, lifting a hand to her own lips to stifle the cries of pleasure they both knew she could not release. Beneath him, around him, she was quivering, shivering, melting him with the heat of her. Onward he moved, hungry, relentless, and as he did, so overwhelmed was he by the way she held him, the way she lifted her hips to meet him, wordlessly asking him for more, for everything, he lost all control of himself. For the first time since this dance between them had begun he was too eager for his own release to take stock of Jean's condition, unable to wait for her to join him atop the precipice so that they could tumble from the heights together. It was too much; the way her breasts bounced with each of his powerful thrusts, the way she let him hold her, move her, take her, utterly, in whatever way he wished, quite overwhelmed him.

He was lost. She was gripping him too tightly, her skin was too soft, too warm, the sounds she was making too enticing; with a strangled groan Lucien buried himself inside her again, and again, almost crazed now as he sought some sanctuary from the dire heat gathering in his body, and then, almost before he realized what was happening, his whole body seized up, and he was emptying himself inside her, his forehead dropping to press against her shoulder as he collapsed atop her, blissful and spent.

* * *

Jean couldn't help it; as Lucien sagged against her a single tear of desperate frustration escaped her. She had been so bloody  _close;_ he was frantic and powerful and the thrust of his length inside her, so much more than she could have imagined before they first fell together, stretching her, filling her, pushing her towards the brink, had been the most delicious sort of torture, but then he had outdistanced her, and she had been left behind, her body tense and tight with longing and yet unable to follow him. And now he was sighing happily, going soft inside her while still her inner muscles clenched and fluttered around him, hungry for a release she had been denied. It wasn't his fault, she knew; she could hardly expect it to be perfect between them every time. That certainly hadn't been the way of things with Christopher, though he had always tried to make it up to her. It was too soon, her nerves too raw, her body too on edge, for her to be practical and forgiving; she wanted what she had been denied, but Lucien seemed too far gone in his own pleasure to recognize her distress.

Though ordinarily Jean would never have been so bold as to even consider doing such a thing she was too keyed up to allow the moment to pass, and so without a second thought she shifted, making a space between their sweat-slicked bodies for her hand to slide between them, intent on the little nub at the apex of her thighs, intent on finding some relief, however lackluster it might have been. He was still there, cradled within her body; maybe it would be enough, her fingers and his slowly softening length.

Lucien hummed, just a little, a sated, curious sound as he felt her moving, but then he must have realized what she was doing for he raised his head, his eyes flying open at once. Jean's cheeks flamed as he looked at her, wondering what he must think of her, that she should even consider doing something so salacious, so uncouth. He didn't chide her, though. To her great surprise he leaned forward and kissed her once, softly.

"Jean," he murmurred, reaching between them to catch her wrist in his hand, stilling her movements and drawing a sound of distress from deep in the back of her throat. "I'm so sorry, love," he said. He kissed her again and then, before she could protest, before she even truly realized what he was doing, he was sliding down her body, dislodging himself from between her legs in the process and sending a shiver racing down her spine.

* * *

This was not the first time Lucien had found his own release before his lover found hers, and he knew it would not be the last, but he was somewhat ashamed of the furious way he had taken her, the way he had given no thought to her own needs, left her lingering on the edge of bliss without having the courtesy to send her flying. It was a misstep that he felt must be corrected, and quickly, and so with that in mind he kissed his way down her trembling body, caressing each and every secret spot he had discovered during their time together. The underside of her breast, the shallow dip between her ribs, the crest of her hip; down and down he went, his hands massaging her thighs all the while, spreading them wider to make room for his broad shoulders. When finally he reached his destination he dragged his tongue along the seam of her leg, one hand sliding beneath her to clench her bum tightly while the other lifted her thigh, encouraged her to fling her leg over his shoulder.

She whimpered, slightly, no doubt a little shocked to find herself so exposed to him, her folds red and swollen and slippery with arousal now at his eye level. He had done this for her before, of course, had tasted her, laved her with his tongue, felt her shattering beneath his mouth, but he was determined that this time he would use every weapon in his arsenal to make up for his earlier oversight.

Such things must be done slowly, methodically, however, and so he did not immediately begin to feast upon her. For a time he simply teased her, kissed the inside of one thigh and then the over, brushed his lips against her folds and chuckled when she bucked up hard against his face, her hands tangling in his hair. He had never seen Jean quite this needy, quite this desperate, and so he took pity on her; without warning he thrust his tongue inside her, the line of his beard scratching against her tender flesh as he chased the taste of her, as deep as he could go, curling his tongue inside her and almost laughing with relief when he heard the strangled cry that escaped her; his eyes were closed, his whole being focused upon the task at hand, but it sounded to him as if she had muffled the sounds of her pleasure with the nearest pillow. Her nails scraped against his scalp and in response he redoubled his efforts, wondering if this alone would be enough to send her over the edge.

It wasn't; though she was trembling, though there was a steady stream of pleading sounds flowing from her lips, though her sex was clenching and fluttering around him, she still did not, could not seem to give in. Lucien was not the sort to stand down from a challenge, however, and so he merely adjusted his approach. He pressed his tongue flat against her and dragged it along the line of her sex until his lips could capture the little bud at the apex of her thighs, suckling and laving it even as he freed one of his hands, two of his fingers slipping easily inside her. He curled his fingers and ground against her even as he worked her over with his mouth, and in a moment she was coming undone. Another of those muffled cries, her hips rising up off the bed as she chased her release, her heel drumming against his back, and then he felt the pulsing of her sex beneath him. He still had one hand clenched around her buttock and he used that hand to hold her close against him, to chase her next release, certain that she could shatter at least once more. Relentlessly he pushed her, with mouth and hands, thrust into the spasms of her body faster, and harder, fingertips brushing against that spot inside her that would send her reeling, and with a helpless, breathy cry of his name she came undone a second time. He could taste her, smell her, feel her hot and wet against his hand, her sex clenched down so tight upon his fingers that he could not withdraw, and with a primal sound of his own he scraped his teeth against her, pressed harder, faster into her; above him it sounded almost as if Jean were weeping now, and he opened his eyes, staring across the plane of her stomach, her muscles tight and taut with yearning. Perhaps it took only minute, or perhaps it took five, or ten; time seemed to become irrelevant, trapped in that instant of want and yearning, but at last he watched her eyes flutter open. Their gazes caught, held, burned like fire between them, and she came undone a third and final time, collapsing against the bed, boneless and spent and whimpering his name with each gasping breath.

* * *

She lay, exhausted and sated, with Lucien's head pillowed on her stomach, and watching him gently stroking her skin, pressing little kisses to the curve of her belly just above her navel, she could not help but imagine him lying there while her stomach was big with child, speaking softly to the baby she knew could never be. Pleasure and weariness had left her loose-tongued and reckless, and she spoke without thinking.

"I thought I was pregnant, earlier this month," she confessed into the silence.

Lucien's eyes flew open, huge and troubled, and she could not help but reach down and run her fingers affectionately through his tousled hair. Somehow telling him now was easier, now that she knew for a fact that she wasn't, now that he had so tenderly shown her just how willing he was to provide for her every need, her every want. And besides, she had realized as she lay there beneath him that he deserved to know, that he deserved the chance to discuss this with her so that they might find a way forward, together.

"I was a week late, you see, and I was sick, but it must have just been something I ate. It passed."

"Oh, Jean," he breathed. "I…" his voice trailed off, and she smiled, thinking that at last she had found a way to cease the endless of torrent of words from his lips. She had never before seen Lucien struck dumb, and seeing him so flummoxed now only endeared him more to her.

"I thought if I put some distance between us, if I stopped...I thought it was a sign, that we shouldn't keep doing this."

He sat up at once, leaning forward so that he could look into her eyes, a somewhat desperate expression on his face now.

"I'm not ready, Lucien," she told him. "I'm not ready for...more, than this. But I don't want to lose what we have."

"Tell me what you need, Jean," he spoke at once, earnestly, his eyes shining with the sincerity of his words, the depth of his passion for her. "Tell me what you want. I'll do anything for you, love."

That was the third time tonight he'd called her  _love,_ and though Jean was not yet ready to speak that word aloud, to confess the depth of her feeling for him, hearing that endearment from his lips gave her cause to hope. Maybe one day, one day they would both be free of the shackles of guilt and grief, ready to move forward, together. It was a comforting thought.

"We'll have to be more careful, Lucien," she answered, her cheeks coloring. Though Jean was no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh she was rather unaccustomed to discussing it; Christopher had been her first and her only for so many years, and things between them had just  _worked_ , and they were married, after all, and both of them Catholic, and so their understanding of what was permitted and what was not was so innate that they had never even discussed it. They had known one another, inside and out, but she and Lucien were only just starting out, stealing frantic moments together instead of falling into bed wrapped around one another every night, and so she knew that things would have to be different, between them.

"I have...condoms, in the surgery," Lucien volunteered, though he spoke slowly, as if he were unsure of how such a response might be received.

Blushing in earnest now Jean shook her head. "Lucien," she said exasperatedly, "I'm  _Catholic._ You know what that means, don't you?"

"No condoms, then," he said quickly, smiling at her somewhat rakishly as if he thought that could hide the fact that his cheeks had turned pink as well. "I suppose I could…"

"No," she cut him off quickly. "That's not really allowed, either." The Catholic church took rather a dim view on  _pulling out,_  as the young people called it, though of course the church took a dim view on sexual relations outside of wedlock as well, and so Jean wasn't really sure if it mattered to them. It mattered to her, though, because if she were going to sin wantonly, willfully, she wanted to limit the damage she caused to just one infraction if at all possible.

"That doesn't leave us many options, Jean," he pointed out.

She very nearly began to laugh as the reality of the situation sunk in, the fact that they were lying in her bed together, both of them naked and sated after having made love yet again, discussing church-approved methods of what the Film Society ladies called  _family planning._ "We'll just have to...take note of the days, Lucien." His eyes widened somewhat, and she spoke quickly, reassuring him before he could voice his concerns. "I don't expect you to keep track, you can barely keep up with your own appointment schedule. But I will try my best to do better, and I will tell you if it's...not a good time."

"Then I will defer to you, my darling Jean," he told her winsomely, catching her wrist and raising her hand to his lips to kiss it gently. "Whatever you say."

He would have to go soon, she knew; they could not risk him falling asleep in her bed, being discovered creeping down the stairs in the morning. But she could enjoy his company a little while longer and so she shifted towards him and he moved with her at once, gathering her into his arms and leaning back against the pillows, dropping a gentle kiss against her hair. No, Jean was not ready for marriage or babies or talk of their future, but she liked it when he held her, when he called her  _darling,_ and she was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, they might one day be able to find their way forward. Together.


	6. Chapter 6

"I'll tell you something," Lucien said as they came trailing in through the door, reaching out to place his hat upon the peg with all the grace of habit. "Your mother's very excited about your new baby."

Though he had not been given the opportunity to speak with Christopher quite as much as he would have liked Lucien had already formed an estimation of the young man's character. Quiet and serious and thoughtful, he reminded Lucien rather forcefully of Jean, in a terribly sad sort of way. In Christopher he saw her strength and her resilience and her uncanny ability for shielding her true thoughts from view, putting on a brave face no matter the circumstances. Though he had been kind to Lucien and did not seem to chafe at his presence in Jean's life the way that Jack had done the young man remained somehow withdrawn, observing the night's proceedings rather than taking part, and Lucien could not help but wonder if he had learned from watching his mother how best to keep his distance, to protect himself. For Jean, too, possessed that uncanny knack for fading into the wallpaper, stepping back and allowing others to take charge while she waited and served and held her tongue. Oh, she had grown more comfortable with Lucien - quite comfortable indeed, given the number of times she had fallen into his bed - and she ran the house with all the elegant grace of a queen and all the stern command of a drill sergeant, but out in the world she was a very different creature. Though she was to Lucien's mind easily the most beautiful woman in the room she had not spent their night trapped in the Colonists' Club chatting with friends or speaking openly of her experiences with the victim, choosing instead to sit off to the side in that beautiful green dress, her chin lifted proudly but the full line of her lips firmly sealed. A woman like that, technically unattached and lovely, could easily have enjoyed a fine night under such circumstances, could have left such an illustrious gathering with a bevy of suitors salivating after her, but not Jean. Likewise, her son had made no new friends that evening.

But the sun had risen, bringing with it a new day, and given that Christopher had agreed to take breakfast with them before setting off for home Lucien took it upon himself to reach out to the lad, for his mother's sake, to appeal to his compassion in the hopes that he might see Jean smiling more often than she had done of late. Though the news of the impending arrival of her first grandchild had initially made Jean quite happy, as the months wore on with little news from Christopher her smile had dimmed. Jean loved her children, Lucien knew, even Jack with his wild, selfish heart, and she had not been as much a part of Christopher's life as she would have liked. It was not in her nature to confide in Lucien as regarded her relationship with her sons, was not like her to complain that the boys never rang, and likewise he knew that she would never tell Christopher how hurt she was not to be included in his life. It would fall to Lucien, to someone familiar with their situation and yet not a part of it, to broach the subject with Christopher, and so he did. Perhaps it was improper, for him to take a hand in the personal affairs of his housekeeper, and perhaps Christopher would object to his familiarity, but Jean was so much more than just an employee; she had made his house a home, looked after Mattie as if she were the girl's mother, looked after Lucien as if she were his wife, loved him fiercely and kept him from losing his head completely, and he rather felt that she deserved some support, given all that she had done for him.

"Is she?" Christopher asked in a skeptical, somewhat sad tone of voice that troubled Lucien a great deal.

"Yes, she is," he said emphatically. Really, he wondered, how could the boy have gotten the measure of her so wrong? Jean was so proud of her oldest son she nearly glowed each time she talked about him, about his successes in the army and his little family and the way he had made such a fine life for himself. "Let her be a part of things, won't you?" Lucien said, clapping the lad on the shoulder. "She deserves some happiness."

Happiness had been short supply for Jean, he knew. Things had been difficult, since Jack's arrival some months before, and Lucien himself had been distracted by questions surrounding his mother's suspicious death, unable to give her the time he knew she needed and feeling quite cross with himself as a result. Their tenuous accord had very nearly been shattered irretrievably; he still shuddered each time he thought of the sorrow in her voice when she confessed to him that she thought she might have been pregnant. He had tried his best, in all the months since, to be conscientious in his dealings with her, to with the touch of his hand and the fire of his kiss show her just how very much she meant to him, just how dedicated he was to her happiness, but he was not such an arrogant bastard as to think that her happiness depended upon him alone. There was a hole in her heart he could not fill, a loneliness born of her estrangement from her children, and it would fall to Christopher to mend that fissure.

Christopher nodded in understanding, though his eyes narrowed as he opened his mouth to speak. Lucien wondered if this would be it, the moment when the lad would finally address all his unspoken questions as regarded Lucien and his intentions towards Jean. Christopher was every bit as clever as his mother, and equally as observant, and Lucien knew that the lad must have noticed the deference Lucien paid her, the way his eyes sought her out across a crowded room, the way he could not stop his hand from resting at the small of her back, tracing over the curve of her shoulder, reaching out to her for reassurance in the chaos of the night. It was foolish, Lucien knew, to be so public with his affections, but it had happened quite without his realizing it. Jean meant everything to him, and he could not pretend otherwise.

They were spared the unpleasantness of that conversation, however, by the sound of Jean's delighted cry echoing out from the kitchen. Dutifully Lucien and Christopher made their way in to find Mattie presenting Jean with a dilapidated little birthday cake. Though the results were pitiful the girl's intentions had been good, and Jean did her best to appear delighted with the gift. Lucien placed his hands upon her shoulders, holding her rather closer than was wise, as he began to lead them all in a rousing song, and Jean pressed herself closer to him still, her temple brushing against his cheek for a just a moment, the soft scent of her hair invading his senses. If it were not for Mattie and Christopher looking on Lucien might well have drawn her flush against his chest, might have placed a gentle kiss upon her cheek and told her how lovely she was, but as it was he caught Christopher's curious glance and stepped away from Jean at once, continuing their little song from a much safer distance.

* * *

Though her birthday had not entirely gone to plan, what with the murdered actress and an evening spent locked inside the Colonists' with that detestable Munro, Jean was delighted by her family's attempts at good cheer. For they were her family, Lucien and Christopher and Mattie all three, and the opportunity to spend time with them, to listen to Mattie's precious laughter and watch Lucien and Christopher speaking quietly to one another as old friends, seemed to her to be quite the best present she could have asked for. She had little need of material things while Lucien provided for all of her wants, but her heart had been aching and weary as she felt her sons pulling further and further away from her, as Mattie spent more time in Melbourne and Lucien spent more time brooding on his mother's death. In recent weeks Jean had once more felt the bitter sting of loneliness pulling at her heartstrings, but not today, not on this beautiful morning, enjoying tea and cake with those she loved most in all the world. Only Jack's presence at the table could have served to make things better, but she knew it would be some time before her reckless son found his way back to her, that she would have to pray for him and wait in patience for the day he saw sense and straightened himself out.

So it was that when Mattie encouraged her to make a wish, Jean's thoughts had not been with Jack, or even with young Christopher, standing there in her kitchen and looking so very like his father that she nearly wept to see it. No, Jean's wish had been terribly simple and terribly selfish, and there was something in Lucien's eyes as he murmured  _bravo_ that told her might well have guessed at it. Superstition dictated that such a wish must be kept in secret, she knew, for to reveal it would be to ensure that it never came to pass. She would keep the truth buried deep in her heart, safe in the knowledge that she had cast her desperate prayer out into the universe, and that would be that. Perhaps it was foolish for a woman like Jean, a woman grown who had long since left the dreams of youth behind her, to take such a wish so seriously, but she did just the same.

When the cake was done and Christopher could not sit still another moment longer she walked him to the door while Mattie dragged herself up the stairs for a nap. They lingered in the foyer for a moment, Christopher eager to leave, Jean reluctant to let her son out of her sight. The night had been a trying one, not just on account of Jacquelyn Maddern's untimely death, but also owing to Christopher himself, to the way his wounded heart had revealed itself to her and confronted her once more with all her failings as his mother. Jean rather thought they had made some progress towards healing their relationship with one another, and she was not yet ready to relinquish her son to the wide world beyond her door.

"You ring me, when you get there," Jean told him sternly, fussing about with the lapels of his jacket. "Let me know you're safe."

"I will, mum," Christopher said good-naturedly, catching hold of her wrists and pulling her hands away from him.

"And give my best to Ruby," Jean forced herself to say, though in truth she cared very little for the high-strung, anxious young lady her son had taken to wife. The turn of Christopher's mouth told her all too plainly that her son was aware she had only spoken out of courtesy, rather than any real feeling, but to both their relief he chose not to comment.

"You take care, yes?" she said as he readied himself to leave, and Christopher smiled at her softly, or at least his face took an expression that was as close to a smile as he ever gave.

"I will. And you take care of yourself, mum," he said. "It seems like you've made a nice life for yourself here," he added quickly, his eyes darting around the foyer of the doctor's fine house for a moment. "The doctor seems to be a good man."

"He is," Jean agreed, rather more earnestly than she meant to, willing herself not to blush under her son's frank gaze. Really, the last thing she wanted was to indulge Christopher in any discussion of Lucien and her relationship with him; Jean could think of nothing more catastrophic than a revelation of her true feelings for that man, especially given how reserved and prudent Christopher was in his own affairs. He would be quite shocked, she knew, dismayed and disgusted to learn just how very wanton his mother could be. There were some things, Jean knew, that no child should ever have to learn about their parents.

"I just want you to be happy, mum," he said then, and before she could protest he kissed her cheek and made his farewells, leaving her to close the door behind him, wondering just how much Christopher had guessed about the state of her heart.

For the most part, Jean supposed she  _was_  happy; she and Lucien had found a good rhythm together, the doctor had curtailed some of his more outlandish behavior - at her urging - and improved his standing in the town, Mattie was faring well and her friends were all still speaking to her blissfully unaware that she lived in a willful state of sin. Much of the furor surrounding her living arrangements with the most handsome, most unpredictable bachelor in town had died down, and she had enjoyed a blissful few months without a hint of gossip or sneering directed towards her. The days when Lucien was not so consumed with his own worries that he ignored everyone and everything around him were days when Jean was blissfully, utterly content. And if on other days she was left melancholy and out of sorts, she supposed it was no one's fault but her own, really, for expecting more from a man who was not promised to her in any way save for the feverish twisting of their bodies together beneath his bedsheets. Lucien had not taken another woman for drinks at the Colonists' and Jean had not accepted another man's invitation to an afternoon in the park, but they had not settled on any name for their arrangement, and as such she knew she could not ask for more time, more care, more consideration from him. He was not a suitor or even a companion; he was her employer and her lover, and she could place no constraints upon him.

The clattering of dishes in the kitchen drew her out of her musings and had her feet turning that way in a moment; as she stepped into the kitchen she found Lucien doing his very best to see to the washing up, and she smiled at the sight of it. No, she could not ask for his love, could not ask for any public declaration of feeling or a ring upon her finger, but she could ask for  _him,_ any time she chose, and he had never once denied her. He was handsome and strong and burned her hot as lightning each time he touched her, and in that moment, tired and winsome and thinking how she'd missed his affections over the last few days while he'd been otherwise distracted, Jean made up her mind. Christopher wanted her to be happy, Lucien wanted her to be happy, even Mattie encouraged her to follow her own desires, and she was determined to do what it took to bring herself a little piece of happiness. It was, after all, her birthday.

Lucien gave her the perfect opportunity as he turned to her, drying his hands with a dishtowel and smiling at her softly.

"Christopher get off all right?" he asked, tossing the towel carelessly to the side and prowling towards her, a slow, hungry smile spreading across his face, a smile that heated her to the core in an instant.

"Yes," she murmured, following his progress hungrily, knowing that he could see in her gaze how very much she wanted him, not caring in the slightest.

"Mattie's gone to sleep, then?"

He came to a stop just in front of her, not touching her and yet standing far too close for propriety's sake. It would be no difficult thing, for him to reach out and catch her by the hips, to draw her into his embrace and burn her to ashes with the heat of him. A year ago, two years ago, such a thought would have sent her running from the room, but in this moment, after everything that had passed between them, Jean stood firm, looking up into his bright blue eyes, smiling.

"Yes," she said again, watching him, wondering what he might do. That was the thing about Lucien; the man was a creature of his own making, prone to sudden changes of mood and impulsive behavior, and even Jean struggled sometimes to guess what he might do next. Perhaps such unpredictability, such capriciousness should have bothered her, but in truth she was utterly fascinated by him, now and always.

"I've been wondering, Jean," he said, his voice low and gravelly, one of his big, strong hands reaching out to trace the curve of her hip around to the small of her back. "What did you wish for, when you blew out those candles?"

Jean's answering grin was practically mischievous. Though Lucien tried to draw her into his arms she stopped him with her palms pressed flat against his chest, forcing him to take a step back and relinquish his hold upon her. His lips were parted slightly, his breaths short and sharp and hungry for her, pupils dark and blown wide with longing, and her heart sang at such obvious evidence of his regard for her, his hands still reaching for her though she had stepped too far away.

No, Jean could not tell him the truth of her wish, could not risk losing that little bit of hope she'd found for herself, but she could seize this moment, could take everything that Lucien offered her and return it a hundredfold, could in the stillness of this beautiful morning take hold of all that she wanted. In this moment, she could be anyone she wanted to be, could do anything she wanted to do, could once more slip the shackles of propriety from her wrists and spread her wings, could become the wild, fierce creature she was whenever Lucien held her. And so she did not speak, in that moment, did not spill her heart to him, did not waste a single second in lament for all the moments of melancholy that had haunted her over the past few weeks. Instead she caught his gaze, let her eyes burn into him as her hands traced down the curve of her own hips, exulting as she saw Lucien's tongue dart out to wet his lips, saw him take an involuntary step towards her.

Jean laughed and shook her head, taking a step back, telling him without words that his part now would be to simply stand still and silent and watching, that now was not the moment for his eager hands and desperate lips. With as much grace as she could muster, given the feverish pounding of her heart, Jean caught her dress in her fingertips, bunching up the smooth fabric, drawing it higher and higher until she was able to pull it over her head completely, feeling the brush of her hair against her neck as her curls bounced back into place.

As she watched Lucien swallowed once, hard, his Adam's apple bobbing and his eyes, his  _eyes_  so intense, so wanting, telling her that he was ready for whatever came next, whatever she wanted of him. Jean grinned at him, feeling powerful, feral, fierce, and with a studied indifference tossed her dress to the side, watching it pool on the floor before she very deliberately turned her back on Lucien, and began to walk, a little extra swing to the movement of her hips, though she knew that her lover needed no further enticement, as she could hear the eager sound of his footsteps behind her. Giddy and emboldened she decided to give him a bit more of a show, and so she caught her silk slip in her hands and removed that as well, throwing it away so that it floated down to the floor of the corridor, and Lucien's answering groan was audible. She knew what sort of picture she presented now, clad in just her underthings, bra and knickers and stockings and high heeled shoes, curls bouncing, hips swaying, the soft skin of her back pale and ready for him. The sound of his harsh breathing behind her, the hunter pursuing his prey to whatever end, sent a shiver coursing through her, but she did not stop, did not hesitate. He had asked her what she wished for, and the truth was she had wished for many things, and this was just one of them. This power, this control, being able to, if only for a moment, feel as if she was the one making the decisions, she was the one who held all the cards, she was the one who dictated the course of her life. Jean had made this choice, had deliberately decided to seduce him rather than giving in to the gentle existence of his constantly seeking hands, and she wanted to enjoy every moment of it.

It was reckless, she knew, even as her footsteps carried her, not to Lucien's bedroom, but to the surgery. To make love to him in the broad light of day in such an inappropriate place was to take a massive risk, but Jean would take it just the same. His bed and her bed both were worn out with their passions, and she had no interest in washing either of their sheets again this week. No, this choice she'd made today, this thing she asked of him, was the end result of a thousand fevered imaginings, a hundred restless fantasies, and if he was willing to give her whatever she asked then she had decided she would ask for the world. And besides, she reasoned as at last she reached the surgery and approached the examination table, Mattie had gone up to bed but there was no way to know for certain if she was actually sleeping, and if they contained their passions to this place then at least Jean could be sure that the girl would not hear them, whereas if they had tumbled into her room or even his, the risk of discovery would have been great indeed. There was a salacious sort of possibility about this room, but even in her abandon Jean was practical, for the telephone was close to hand, and Jean could reassure herself that she was not shirking all her responsibilities, that should it ring while they were in the midst of their passions she would be able to hear it, to answer it and see to whatever need had arisen without anyone discovering just what she and the doctor had been getting up to.

As she reached the side of the examination table Lucien caught her by the hips and spun her around, and before she could take a breath she was wrapped up in his arms, drowning beneath his kiss. With a sigh of bone-deep contentment she wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, fingernails scraping lightly against his skin so that he shivered in her embrace while her free hand slid beneath his jacket, coming to rest against his back, his skin burning hot as fire even through the layers of his waistcoat and shirt. This easy intimacy, this heady sense of knowing and being known, this comfort with one another was delicious in its familiarity now. He was wild, he was reckless, he was clever, he was kind, he was strong, and he was  _hers;_ she could not claim him publicly, could not take his hand when they walked to the shops, could not take his name for all to see, but she could take him in her arms in this place, could hold him close and feel his solid strength against the softness of her own body, could take his brutal kisses and his delicate touch, could take the mark of his lips against her breast and hold these things deep in her heart, safe in the knowledge that for now, for this moment at least and all the moments like it that would follow after, he was  _hers_ , and hers alone.

* * *

There was something so lovely, so devilishly transfixing, about Jean when she shed her inhibitions, when she wound herself around him and gave to him every piece of her, and Lucien drank her in like a man dying of thirst. The confidence in her movements as she stripped off her dress herself, the challenge in her as she so casually tossed aside her clothes and led him to this place, left him powerless to resist her. The thought of having her here, on the table, on his desk, against the wall, of walking into this room every day and remembering the heat of her, the glorious inferno of her passions, left him weak with desire. She was so clever, so much brighter than most people gave her credit for; he had heard men remarking on her beauty, had heard his patients sing her praises for her tea and her gentle guidance, but it seemed to him that very few people were aware just how sharp, how insightful, how brilliant she truly was. Perhaps she had long ago learned that women were not often praised for their minds and kept the depth of her intellect to herself, but she had shared it with him, and he stood in awe of her, stood in awe of her courage and her strength and the spark of fire in her eyes. It would never have occurred to him to even suggest that they fall together in the surgery, but now that she had led him here he could think of nothing he wanted more.

As he kissed her, her mouth warm and sweet and soft beneath his own, her lips reddening where his beard brushed against them, the undeniable heat of her hand against his skin spoke to him, urged him on, and with eager hands he began to tug at the last of her clothes. Jean laughed against his lips but pushed his jacket from his shoulders, and they struggled together, wrangling with buttons and clasps and ties, laughing and kissing and provoking one another as they went. Though he loved every moment of their coupling every time they came together, though his heart sang with every touch of her hand and the delirious heat of her, though he treasured each memory deep in his heart when the world around him became too much to bare, this was by far his favorite part, this moment when at last she stood before him bare and gasping, revealed to him in all her glory. Jean loomed large in life, a demanding personality at the best of times, all fire and unyielding determination, but in truth the vision of her now was small and sweet and lovely, with her narrow waist, her neat breasts crying out for the touch of his lips, the curve of her hip gentle and a perfect fit for the breadth of his hand. She was soft and warm and real, perfect in the imperfections that formed the truth of her, and he was certain he had never beheld anyone or anything more lovely than she. The trust she placed in him, that she would allow him to see her thus, vulnerable and stripped of her every defense, warmed his heart, and stirred up some deep possessive, protective need in him even as the pale smoothness of her skin inflamed his desire. He reached for her, intending to lift her up and set her down upon the examination table so that she could wrap her legs around his waist and he could bury himself inside her, but she stopped him with gentle hands pressed against his chest.

There was fire in her eyes, but mischief, too, for she pushed him back until it was Lucien who was flush against the table.

"Lie down," she told him in a breathy voice, and her sparkling eyes and heaving chest held him hypnotized, helpless to do anything save follow her commands. It was hardly graceful, the way he clambered up onto the table, but he had no need to worry about Jean's judgment of him; she was watching him with a delighted expression upon her face, and he was willing to do whatever it took to make her happy.

The table was covered with a soft white sheet, angled slightly so that in a moment Lucien was reclining back upon it, feeling a little bit foolish laid out completely naked for Jean's perusal. He watched her circling, drawing closer to him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth and her eyes suddenly hooded, dark with desire, and he felt himself harden further beneath her attentions, ready and willing to follow her wherever she wanted to go this morning. It was hardly the most comfortable place to lie in the house but the possibilities inherent in his position were delectable, and he waited with bated breath to see what she might do.

It did not take very long, in the end, for Jean to make up her mind; she smiled at him softly and lifted herself up, crawling along the length of his body in a manner much more seductive and enticing than his own fumblings had been. In a moment she was settled atop his hips, the gentle scratch of the coarse curls at her center and the damp, delirious heat of her making contact with his lower belly and drawing a groan from his as his hands rose up to trace the perfect slope of her back. Jean lowered herself until once more they were kissing feverishly, messily, deliriously unconcerned with anything but one another. Her hands were planted against the table just above his shoulders, her chest pressed flush to his, and he gave thanks then, to the universe, to the god he no longer believed in, to whatever power had brought this woman into his life and into his arms.

He was not content to be idle, however, for as much as he delighted in the taste of her kiss there was so much more of her he wanted to explore. His hands traced a path around her sides, running between their bodies until he was cradling her breasts in his palms, curling his fingers around her and groaning aloud at the way she shivered and ground herself against him. The shifting of her hips painted his skin with her wetness and told him in no uncertain terms that she was just as deeply affected by their tryst as was he. The table was narrow, and there was no safe way for him to roll her beneath him; Jean had chosen their location wisely, for she had arranged them in just such a way that she could take her pleasure however she chose, and Lucien would have no choice but to submit to her will. Rather than taking affront at such a change in the usual way of things between them he was delighted by her confidence and her rather obvious desire for him, delighted to know that however much he wanted her, however much his body cried out for her, she was equally as affected, and ready to take from him everything that he had to give her.

Ordinarily he would lay her out before him and taste her, touch her, move her every way he could before he buried himself inside her, determined to make her body sing in bliss, but today it seemed that Jean had decided to take that role upon herself, for her hands traced gentle patterns and over the curve of his arms while she dragged her lips along the corded muscles of his neck. The nip of her teeth, gentle but demanding, had him groaning and thrusting up mindlessly against her, his hands tightening their grip upon her breast and in turn increasing the tempo of her hips shifting against him. Could she feel it, he wondered, the building need, the burning friction where their bodies touched; would this be enough, to send her from the edge before they'd ever gotten started? It was a heady thought, enough to make him close his eyes and lose his breath completely, the thought of Jean taking her pleasure in such a way.  _Christ,_ but he loved this woman.

Still her lips moved, kisses soft as the brush of a feather against his collarbone, fingertips circling round the line of his nipples while he cast his head back against the table and let her drink her fill of him. Lucien could not understand how it was that someone as lovely, as perfect, as wonderful as Jean could touch him so reverently, but he delighted in it, just the same. His hands abandoned their exploration of her chest and set a course for the swell of her bum instead, fingers curling around her supple flesh and guiding the movements of her hips, encouraging her, supporting her.

" _Jean,"_ he groaned when she shivered against him and laved his nipple with her tongue. "My darling."

"Lucien," she whispered in turn, lips brushing his skin, soft and sweet.

He wanted to tell her that she was beautiful, that she was enchanting, that he loved her most completely, but the words would not come. Jean deserved more from him than that, a mindless declaration made in the fog of passion, and so he held his tongue, but he found he could not remain idle a second longer. She was close, so damnably close, and he wanted her so desperately, and the ache of his cock crying out for her could not be denied a single second longer. With a growl he clenched his hands tighter around her bum, and she let out an undignified noise that might best be described as a squeal before it morphed into a breathy laugh. She reached down between them, settling her weight upon her knees as she rose up above him, caught his hardness in her gentle hand and pumped him a few times, traced the heat of him with her palm and laughed again when he thrust up towards her, eager and hungry.

Perhaps she might have intended to chide him for his impatience, with her lips and tongue once more settled against his neck, but he did not give her the chance, for he used the hands still cradling her bum to draw her down towards him. They were practiced enough at this, at coming together, had spent so much time learning one another's thoughts and needs and desires that he had no need of words to tell her what it was he wanted from her next. He brought her down and with her hand she lined them up so that as she came crashing against him his length slid into the warmth and wet of her and she whimpered even as he moaned at the bliss of them coming together.

For a moment he worried that he had not done enough to prepare her for him, but such concerns were proved moot as Jean took over, trembling above him, sinking onto him until they were flush together and panting. With hands planted hard to his chest she raised herself up, and the sight of her, lips swollen and panting, nipples pebbled from the touch of his palm, her dark curls bouncing around her angel's face with reckless abandon, moved him more deeply than anything else he had ever seen in his life. Lithe and graceful as a dancer she swayed above him, her hips rising and falling to a rhythm all her own, taking him in again and again while his hands remained firmly wrapped around the tender flesh of her bum.

Onward she moved, riding him in earnest now, her breath escaping her on each downward thrust with a breathy moan. The sounds of her pleasure never ceased to astound him, and in this moment he was certain that he had never heard a song more beautiful than the melody of her crying out for him.

"Oh,  _Lucien,"_  she gasped, grinding down against him, seeking out that little bit more stimulation from him, "oh _, oh_ ,  _please,"_  and the sound of her begging for him even when she was ostensibly in control of their encounter snapped the last remaining threads of his tenuous self-restraint.

" _Yes,_ my darling," he answered her, and with those words his hands at last abandoned her bum, danced along the length of her spine until he could catch hold of her shoulders. With his hands wrapped firmly around her he drew down against him, hard, planted his feet upon the table and leveraged himself up, holding her tight to him while he began to pound up into her.

"Oh,  _god,"_ she cried, once, the last words she spoke before she buried her face against the curve of his neck, her lips fusing to his skin as she moaned and trembled and gasped against him, and the wet brush of her tongue against him, the fluttering of her inner muscles around the length of his shaft, the way she ground herself against him, accepted the invasion of his hardness into her tender heat and begged him for more, encouraged him to a pace so furious he worried he might well be hurting her until all conscious thought left him, until she clenched him hard and shook and cried out her abandon, and he could do nothing else save continue on. In a moment what remained of reason left him, and with a groan that was far too loud given the fact that the sun was dancing merrily outside the windows he spilled himself inside her, lost in the heat and the bliss and the rapture of the moment.

* * *

Lucien had tangled one hand in her hair, fingertips pressing against her scalp in a comforting, soothing sort of way, while the other traced fond patterns along the slope her back. Jean remained right where she was, his softening length buried inside her, his hips nestled between her thighs, her nose pressed hard to the line of his neck. They were gasping, both of them, sated and spent and utterly exhausted after having been awake all night and then having so enthusiastically given in to their passions, and though she knew they could not linger here she could not quite bring herself to move. Not now, not yet, not when her heart was singing and Lucien was holding her, all of his attention focused on her for the first time in what felt like weeks.

"You know," Lucien whispered into the stillness, "you're awfully spry for a woman who's about to become a grandmother."

Jean laughed aloud and then scraped her teeth against his neck as punishment for his impertinence, though the way he hummed and shivered beneath her told her that her actions were not sufficient chastisement.

"You're awfully smug, for a man who's already a grandfather," she told him.

It was Lucien's turn to laugh, and in the movement of their bodies at last his cock left her, and she sighed once, not disappointed, exactly, but already missing the feeling of completeness he brought to her whenever he was inside her. Carefully Jean raised herself up and ran her fingers through her hair though she knew it was hopelessly mussed and beyond such futile attempts at sorting it out. For a moment she smiled down at him, her eyes following the neat line of his beard, drinking in the softness of his eyes and the little wrinkles that appeared there when he returned her smile in kind.

"It makes me feel positively ancient," she confessed. "I'm going to be a  _grandmother."_  And though she said the word with some distaste - for truly, she could hardly believe that she was old enough, that her boys were old enough, for such a title to belong to her - she could not help but deny that she was quite looking forward to holding her grandchild in her arms. Christopher was a fine young man, and whatever Jean thought about Ruby he had chosen the girl to be his wife and remained most devoted to her, and she was happy that he would finally learn the joys of having a family all his own. She worried for him, of course; she knew what it meant, to be a soldier's wife, knew what it meant for a soldier to have a child of his own, knew the hardships of the road he had chosen for himself, but she was happy for him, just the same. Family had brought her love and a sense of wholeness she had not known before, and she believed her Christopher would make a good father.

Family could hurt, too, she knew; she saw that pain in Lucien's eyes as his thoughts no doubt wandered to his own daughter and granddaughter, felt that pain in her heart each time she thought of Jack. Love could heal, and love could wound, more completely than any other force on earth.

"Look around you, Jean," Lucien said at last, and the sudden sparkle in his eyes and the set of his mouth told her that he had chosen to banish the weight of the moment with mirth. "This is hardly an appropriate position for two dignified grandparents such as ourselves."

Jean laughed again, feeling relieved and delighted in equal measure. Yes, she thought, let them laugh, let them enjoy one another, let them take strength from their connection and not lose themselves to the grief of the past.

"And when have you ever worried about what was appropriate, Lucien?" she fired back.

He grinned at her, boyish and happy, and so she lowered herself to kiss him again, for she could not resist him, her Lucien, her dearest love, though she did not breathe such a thought aloud. The morning was young and the house was quiet and the world was still, and they continued to celebrate her birthday for some time, laughing and speaking quietly to one another, healing all their hurts with gentle kisses and reverent hands.


	7. Chapter 7

"This doesn't change anything," Jean murmured. She was lying with her head pillowed on Lucien's chest, his arms wrapped tight around her, his slowly softening length still buried within her trembling heat.

One of them needed to say it, and given that Lucien was still and silent beneath her she felt that duty had fallen to her. The last few weeks had been a tumult of chaos and grief; Lucien had hardly spared a glance for her, had all but forgotten the birth of her granddaughter, had not lifted a finger to try to stop her leaving when young Christopher asked for her help. Jean had rather hoped he might, that he might protest when she asked him to co-sign on her loan, that he might beg her to stay when she had gone to him in the sitting room and taken a long sip of his whiskey and told him she was leaving, but he had done nothing of the sort. Not once, since she'd told him that her mind was made up, had Lucien tried to talk her out of it. Consumed by his own demons and desperate to find the answer to his own questions he had not held her once, had not asked her to reconsider, had not done a damn thing to suggest that he would suffer for her absence.

Even now, lying together in her rented room in the hotel, he had not come to her in this final hour to demand that she stay. He had come to her because she could be useful to him, and for all her sins she had been. Jean could deny him nothing, and so she had listened to his theories and offered him what counsel she could, and when he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck she had sighed and offered herself up to him, one last time. The scones he'd brought lay forgotten in the corner, a somewhat empty gesture, she thought now. At first she had been pleased to see them, pleased to think that he had listened to her, that he had gone to such trouble for her sake, but now they seemed to her no more than a bribe, wages for the work she had done in untangling his thoughts and allowing him to find shelter between her thighs. As she lay soaking in the warmth of him she resolved to send him home with them, for he was her employer no longer, and she would take no more payment from him.

"Jean," he said softly, one of his hands rising to tangle in the riot of her dark curls, but Jean would not hear him. Her mind was made up, and every word he'd said - or hadn't said - in the last week had only strengthened her resolve. With her whole heart she loved this man, and though she knew he bore her some affection, though she knew he respected her mind and her insight, she likewise knew that she would never be his priority. Lucien was a complicated man, still troubled by his past, and he was ruled by impulse and - at times - by ego. The mystery of the hour, his own selfish hunt for truth, his fervent desire to always be  _right,_ all the bloody time, would always come before her. How could Jean ever hope to make a life, make a home, with such a man? They had shared so much, over the last few months, had fallen together time and time again, and though he had deferred to her, though more than once their tumblings had been about sating her own unspoken needs, their connection remained solely on his terms. It was Lucien who had started this business, Lucien who had come to her that night in the garden and pressed her until the last of her defences crumbled and she lost herself in the heat of his kiss, Lucien whose distance and distraction had forced her to pull back. It would fall to Lucien, to strengthen their connection, to determine whether they would have a future together or whether they would just continue to steal quiet moments in one another's arms, and given how aloof he had been, given that he had never suggested such a thing, that he had never given her any indication that their current arrangement was not enough for him, in the end it was Lucien who had decided for her. She couldn't bear it, to continue on this way, to give all of herself to a man who would not do the same for her in return.

Jean had loved her Christopher, loved him fiercely, loved him more than her own life. And he in turn had been kind, and strong, had done his best to provide for her, had been the best possible father to their children. But it had always fallen to Jean to soothe his heart, to allay his anger, to clean up his messes. She had spent eight years of her life laboring beneath the weight of his emotions, and the one time she had failed, the one time she had spoken out of turn and let him work through the labyrinth of his heart on his own, he had enlisted and left her side for good. For seventeen years she had been paying penance for that mistake, and she would not consent to once more take on the burden of a man who was so ruled by passion that he could not find his way without her. Passion was exciting, exhilarating, even, and she took pleasure in being needed, but Jean had needs of her own, and Lucien had made it clear over the last few weeks that he would not be the one to fulfill them. It would be better, she told herself, to leave now, when no one knew of her shame, when she had opportunity to be useful somewhere else, when she could preserve her dignity and her independence, than to waste away in that grand house, pining for Lucien and coming to him like a dog called to heel on the occasions when he deigned to think of her.

Perhaps it was unkind, to think of him in such a way. Perhaps she had only latched on to those doubts in order to protect her heart, to ease the pain of her departure. Perhaps he had motivations all his own, of which he had not spoken, of which she could not even fathom a guess. It was a moot point, really; her son had need of her, and she could not continue on in this fashion with Lucien, and the time had come for her to make a clean break.

Which would prove difficult, given that Lucien still held her so close, the beat of his heart pressed tight to her own, her thighs still pressed hard to the line of his hips, their bodies still joined in the most intimate of ways.

"I'm leaving, Lucien," she said. "Christopher needs me. You'll find another housekeeper."

Though she could not see his face she could feel the way his arms tightened around her reflexively, and a desperate seed of hope began to bloom in her heart, though she tried her best to smother it with the weight of her reasoning.

"Is that what you think?" his voice was soft, but his tone was deeply accusatory. "You think I want you to stay and pour my tea?"

Gingerly Jean raised herself up until she was sitting atop him, trying not to shiver as she felt him still inside her, as she watched the look of bliss that darted across his face as she shifted around and above him.

"I think you've grown comfortable, and you don't want things to change. But that's life, Lucien. Everything changes. You'll get used to it, in time."

There was something in his eyes that reminded Jean rather of a dog that had been kicked, wounded and betrayed and yet still hoping for a treat. Her heart ached for him, knowing that he was confused, that he wasn't happy about being left behind, but she remained firm. For once, Jean was doing something entirely for herself. Yes, she was going to help Christopher, but that was no more than an added bonus; she had made a decision to take charge of her life, to find her own place to stay, to make new friends, to break old patterns and no longer live her life in service to the Blakes. It was terrifying, but freeing, too, and she tried to cling to that sense of freedom, tried to remind herself of all the many reasons why her leaving was for the best.

"Jean, please," he sounded dangerously close to begging, but all Jean could think was that he was about three days too late. If he had begged her the day she asked him to sign for the loan, or the night she'd told him her mind was made up, his words might have carried more weight. As it was she was firmly fixed on leaving, her bus ticket tucked neatly inside her purse, her bags packed by the door, and no words would draw her away from her chosen course now.

With that in mind she smiled at him softly, ducked her head to kiss his cheek, and then carefully clambered off of him. It grieved her, just a little, to part from him, to know that she would never again feel the unbridled joy of Lucien moving beneath her, inside her, but there was more to her life than just the pleasure he gave her, and it was time she remembered that, time she remembered what was truly important. She was grateful, truly, for the affection Lucien had bestowed upon her, the way he had made her feel once more wild and free, the way he had with gentle hands reawakened her desire, but desire alone would sustain her no longer.

"It's time, Lucien," she told him as she cast about in search of her knickers. It was time for him to go, time for her to start afresh, time to break free of the patterns they had both grown accustomed to over the last few months. It was time to set aside this hopeless infatuation, time to face reality, time to dress and rejoin the world once more.

* * *

Lucien stared at her, dumbfounded, wounded, infuriated. It had almost killed him, holding his tongue these last few weeks, not wanting to burden her with the weight of his heart, his longing, his hopes. This was a choice Jean would have to make on her own terms, and he did not want to persuade her, to force her into a decision she would later regret. There were so many things he wanted to tell her; he wanted to tell her how he loved her, how nothing in his life made sense without her by his side, how he would give her the world, how he would cherish her, protect her, worship her, for all the rest of his days, how if she would have him then he would gladly be her husband, now and always. It would have been unkind, he thought, to tell her such things now, when she would worry that he was saying whatever was needed to keep her close, when she might doubt the sincerity of his promises. It would have been unfair to only offer her this closeness, this commitment, this chance of forever, when she had already chosen to go to her son, to help him in his time of need. The last thing Lucien wanted was to place another burden upon her, to further strain her relationship with young Christopher, but the very thought of her leaving nearly ripped his heart in two. He  _loved_ her, and she was leaving, and he could not bear it.

And then, to make matters worse, she had spoken to him brusquely, had made it clear that she had listened to his strained silence and drawn her own conclusions about his feelings for her. That had to be corrected; every moment he had spent not begging her to stay by his side had pained him sharp and bitter as a knife between the ribs and he would not leave this place until she understood just how much she meant to him, just how much he hungered for her, just how much it cost him, to let her go.

As he watched she shuffled about the room, sliding her knickers on, casting about in search of her bra, graceful as always, and his heart ached, just a little, at the thought of Jean sliding her dress over her head once more, hiding the soft, supple curves of her body from his sight for good and all. She was quite the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he felt the loss of her as a physical ache in his chest.

In a moment he was on his feet; Jean had paused by the small dressing table in the corner, trying without success to bring some order to her unruly hair, and Lucien seized the opportunity at once, reaching out with both hands to catch hold of her hips, to draw her back against his naked chest. A soft, mournful little sound left her as he held her close, as his palms slid over her skin until his hands were locked together against her belly, anchoring her to him. He bowed his head, rested his chin upon her shoulder, and stared straight into the mirror. Their eyes caught and held there, hers grey and soft and sad and his blue and bright and pleading. For a moment they studied one another, the sight of her skin pale and soft against his own tanned and scarred, the neat swell of her breasts, rising and falling with each of her breaths, dusky pink nipples soft but slowly swelling as the cool air washed over them, as the heat of her proximity to him slowly began to overwhelm her. Lucien devoured the sight of her, desperate to fix this image in his mind forever, should this truly be the last time he was blessed to see her vulnerable and honest. The tumble of her curls, the little wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, the full bow of her lips paler now without her lipstick, the hint of grey at her temples, the soft curve of her stomach, the smattering of freckles across her chest; there were a million tiny things about Jean he had never known, never seen, never guessed until he first beheld her naked in his arms, and he treasured each and every one of them, for the story of her own life was writ large upon her skin, as was his own. Lucien did not spare a moment for looking at himself, however, except to watch the way his arms bound her, to take stock of how small, how delicate she was in comparison to him, and he felt his love for her growing in his chest with every passing heartbeat.

"Lucien," she whispered into the stillness, her hands coming to rest against his own, fingertips tracing the ridges of his knuckles as if she could not quite decide whether to draw him closer or push him away.

"Don't leave me, Jean," he answered her, the warm wash of his breath fluttering the hair that curled softly round her ear. "Stay with me, always. Let me make you happy."

It was the wrong thing to say, and he knew it at once, for her eyes flashed at him in the mirror and her fingers slid between his own, intent on releasing his hold on her. Lucien could not bear to let her go, however, and so he only clung to her tighter.

"You want to make me happy now you've got me naked," she hissed, "but what about tomorrow, Lucien? What about the next time there's a murder to solve? What about the next time something else catches your attention and you ignore me for weeks on end? I can't live my life this way. I won't."

"Ignore you?" Lucien asked, somewhere between flabbergasted and furious. "Is that what you think I've been doing?"

"What am I meant to think?" she fired back. He watched her in the mirror, her chest heaving now that her ire was up, her eyes the color of the sea in a storm, a flush working its way up from the curve of her breast along the elegant column of her throat, and in an instant, despite the tumult of his emotions, despite his terror at the thought of her leaving, despite his anger at the thought that she could so completely misunderstand his intentions, despite the fact that he had only just found his bliss in her arms a half hour before, he felt his desire stirring against her back. Lucien  _loved_  this woman, and no one else had ever wielded the power to so completely undo him the way that she did, to make him want to fall to his knees and beg for her, to make him want to possess her utterly. She could feel it, too, he saw; that flush reached her cheeks and though her fingers continued to pluck ineffectually at the knot of his hands against her stomach she pressed back against him - perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not - and he knew that she could feel the sudden rise of his interest against the tender curve of her bum. The drag of her satin knickers against his over-sensitive skin made him hiss, once, softly, needfully, and he spoke without thought.

"I thought this was what you wanted," he told her, his voice thick with heat, with want, with frustration. "I didn't want to force you to stay with me if you'd rather be somewhere else. I have been trying," he gritted his teeth as she arched in his embrace, ever so subtly, his eyes fixed upon the rise of her breast, the rest of him wholly focused on the press of her warmth against his most urgent need, trying not to think how damnably  _easy_  it would be to tear her knickers and bend her over that dressing table and take her hard and fast while she watched him in that mirror, "to respect your wishes. One word from you, my darling, and I would have fallen to my knees and begged you to stay. I thought you knew that already."

For a moment Jean looked as stunned as if he'd struck her, but she was not melting beneath the weight of his declaration; if anything, the expression he saw dancing in her eyes most closely resembled exasperation.

"You are, without a doubt, the single most infuriating man I've ever known," she told him, and though she'd likely intended to sound cool or derisive there was a note of wry affection in her voice that made him bold. He had finally done it, had in his own way confessed to his fervent need of her, and whatever she might say the response of her body told him all too plainly what it was she wanted of him. Jean did not want to leave him, not truly, and though a part of him wanted to shout in victorious glee another darker, more distressed piece of his soul wanted to shout in rage, to curse her, to shake her by the shoulders, to demand an explanation from her. Why had she remained silent? Why had she not trusted him, not come to him to talk this through? Why was she so dead-set on tearing them apart? Why did her bloody sense of propriety always come before the needs of their hearts?

"You like that about me," he all but growled at her, his voice no more than a dangerous whisper. He brushed her hair aside with his nose and began to drag his lips along the length of her neck, feeling her trembling in response, tasting the salty sting of sweat from their previous coupling, the air around them redolent with the scent of sex and want and yearning.

"Lucien," Jean whispered, and in the stillness between them her voice echoed loud as gunfire, though through the fog of his growing arousal he could not discern whether she was chiding him or encouraging him. "We can't solve all our problems this way."

Gently he pressed his teeth against her leaping pulse, the tip of his tongue brushing against her skin, and for all her protestations she mewled and arched into his embrace. Boldly Lucien allowed his hands to follow the path of her body until he was cupping her breasts in his palms, the tips of his fingers curling around the softness of her flesh, his heart beginning to race as she pressed herself more firmly into his grasp.

"Are you so very sure about that, my darling?" he asked her. It was unkind, he knew, to tease her so, to ask her such a serious question while they stood locked in this intimate embrace, his aching cock pressing insistently against the swell of her bum, her body wholly at his mercy, but he did it just the same. It seemed to him that he never felt so close to her as when he was inside her, when she allowed her defenses to crumble, allowed him to see her as she was, gave all of herself over to him and accepted him in return. In those moments they were most truly themselves, and though they never spoke the truth aloud the love he bore her, and the love she returned to him, seemed to radiate from their very pores. She could not deny her love of him, when he held her so close, and he desperately hoped she would allow him this opportunity to remind her that they belonged together like this, always.

"Stay with me," he pressed her, tightening his grip upon her body, urging her forward until she was forced to fling her hands out against the dressing table to hold herself upright.

"You know I can't," she answered, but there was an uncertainty in her voice that gave him cause to hope.

"Come home to me, my darling." At last he made his move, his left hand still cradling one of her breasts while the other drifted down, fingertips curling around the satin of her knickers, tugging gently. Though Lucien was the driving force behind this encounter still he gave her every opportunity to flee; if she had only told him  _stop,_ or  _no, please,_  if she had caught his wrist in her hand and pulled him away, if she had bucked against him and tried to throw him off, he would have retreated at once, contrite and chastised, but she did no such thing. Still he watched her in the mirror, and for an instant he thought he saw the shine of tears in her eyes, but then she was closing them, sighing, shifting to free her left hand so that she could help him peel her knickers off.

Lucien's heart began to sing.

It was not the concession he'd hoped for, no grand declaration of love or affection or absolution or intent, but it was enough. She was not pushing him away, was not denying her need of him, was not pretending for a single moment more that she was happy in her choice. Jean wanted this, wanted  _him,_ as much as he longed for her, and he would have her, again, would fill her, consume her, would beg her with every movement of his body to stay. He did not know if this would be sufficient grounds to change her mind, if he had been convincing enough, if she had need of more from him; he would gladly have asked her to be his wife in that moment; he considered asking, as her knickers whispered down the length of her shapely legs to pool at her feet, but he held his tongue, certain that Jean would not approve of him posing such a question to her while they were in such a compromising position, that she would doubt the honesty of his request and spurn him at once. She deserved a proper proposal, a genuine submission from him, and he would give it to her; even as he trailed one broad hand along the slope of her back, watched her lean forward still further, thrusting back against him until a helpless little sound of want tore from the back of his throat, he was trying to remember where his father had left his mother's engagement ring, wondering whether Jean would like it, wondering whether he could go and fetch it, after, and return to her at once with it. The prospect of losing Jean had made him see clearly how desolate he would be without her, and he would not waste another moment pretending he did not love her more than his own life.

There were more pressing needs for him to attend to at present, however, and so he pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the heat of Jean beneath his hands, one palm trailing over the curve of her arse, thick fingers stroking her soft flesh, dipping down to slide across her folds and finding her wet and hot and swollen with want. How much of that yearning was the result of their current position and how much remained from their previous coupling was unclear to him, but she whimpered, just a little, and his heart leapt like some great possessive beast as he laid claim to her once more, as he asked himself whether the wetness he found was hers alone or some mix of them both. She was  _his,_ and he liked this reminder of his hold over her, liked the idea of making her his, body and soul, liked knowing that as much as he was in her thrall she likewise was powerless to resist him. He teased her for a time, wanting to make her pant, to gasp, to moan, to beg for him. Already he was hot and hard and eager for her, but he wanted her to ask for it, to ask for him, to set aside any pretense of rejection and accept him at once.

* * *

Jean was trembling, not from the physical strain of holding herself upright but from the emotional burden of keeping silent, the struggle to bite back the words she longed to cry out. Her eyes fluttered open, a ragged gasp tearing from her throat as her gaze locked with Lucien's in the mirror, as she saw the heat, the lust, the burning need in his eyes and drowned in them, in him. The words were locked in the back of her throat, a babbling torrent of need and weakness;  _take me, please, keep me, hold me, love me, always. Don't let me leave, promise me that you will be mine, forever. Ask me, Lucien, please, ask me._ Perhaps it was for the best, that she could not spare the breath to speak, not when the sheer power of him overwhelmed her utterly. His body held her in place, solid, heavy, immovable as marble and as finely carved as any statue of the old gods she'd seen reproduced in the books in old Doctor Blake's study. He was perfect, in every way, visceral, virile, strong, impossible; when his hands brushed her skin her knees turned to water and her body flooded with heat and any resolve she had gathered to resist him deserted her utterly. In his arms she was a wanton thing, desperate and delirious, and she could no more fight her longing for him than she could have torn the beating heart from her chest.

And he knew it,  _damn him,_ had taken one look at her wretched face and  _smirked_ at her, arrogant and delighted, and she should not have found his confidence so appealing but  _god,_ she needed him. He had done what she wanted, finally, had asked her to stay, and though rationally she knew that he was only gasping at loose ends, saying whatever it took to keep her close, she latched onto those words as a dying man clinging to a liferaft. So long as he cradled her sex so gently, fingertips tracing through her wetness, so close to where she wanted him and yet denying her the pleasure she knew he could bring her, so long as he retained his possessive hold on her breast, denying her freedom of movement, forcing her to stare into that mirror and see for herself how base, how desperate he made her, she could nothing more than give herself over to him, body and soul.

He wanted her to beg for him, she knew. That was the only reason for his restraint; his own need was urgent and undeniable, hot and silken and hard against her tender flesh, but he did not surge forward, did not pound into her, would do no such thing until she told him in no uncertain terms that it was precisely what she wanted. Jean wanted to curse him, for putting her in this position, for forcing her hand, but in truth she understood it. It was Jean who had made the choice to leave him, and it would be up to her to choose to return. He had done all he could, in whispering to her softly, asking her to stay, and the rest was in her hands.

The words would not come, however, pride and doubt staying her tongue. Though she had until recently been growing more confident in their encounters, more willing to take the initiative, to boldly ask for precisely what she wanted, in this moment she could not find the words. It was too late for her to change her mind, too late for her to ring her son and tell him that she would not be coming, after all, too late for her to go to her friends and tell them that she would be staying, for they would ask her why, and she could not possibly explain that it was the thrill of Lucien's hardness against her back and his fingers between her legs that had changed her mind. The words she'd spoken to him earlier remained a bitter truth she could not deny;  _this doesn't change anything._

But,  _oh,_ his finger had found the little bundle of nerves at her center, still swollen and sensitive from the time they'd spent tangled in the bed sheets, and  _oh,_ but his palm was grinding hard against her tender folds, and  _oh, god,_ but his tongue was tracing the shell of her ear. She whimpered, just a little, her resolve weakening with each passing second, and in the mirror he grinned, sharp and feral, the scratch of his beard against her neck as he ducked his head to kiss the juncture of her shoulder sending a wave of desire washing over her, and at last she capitulated.

" _Please,_ Lucien," she gasped, and he growled, and surged forward at once.

There was no gentleness to it, no tender caress, just fire and heat and power as his hardness thrust into her, the sudden strength of him sending her crashing into the dressing table, the sudden stretch of her already aching sex filled with him once more drawing a ragged cry from her lips. He made a sound that might have been a laugh had he been able to spare the breath for it and adjust his grip upon her, one hand clenching hard around her hip while the other rose up, his palm resting against her lips, broad fingers finding purchase against the rise of her cheek, his touch light as a feather but enough to tell her what he was trying to convey;  _you must be quiet,_ she reprimanded herself before he was moving again and all conscious thought was lost. There were other people in this hotel, people who might have seen him come to her, might have seen them disappear up the stairs together, and the sun was still high outside the window, and it would not do, to make such noise. His hand stifled the sounds of her pleasure, her panting breaths and the tip of her tongue leaving his skin wet and hot, and still he held her.

This was not the first time his passions had struck her so fiercely, not the first time he had been so rough, so demanding of her, but Jean could not recall having ever felt quite like this in all her life. Already she had come undone twice beneath his ministrations, but this was something else entirely. The length of him, thick and heavy and long enough to draw a whimper from her each time he bottomed out inside her became her sole focus. In his arms she was boneless and free, nothing more required of her than that she hold him, accept him, that she be honest with him, that she lay her heart bare before him, and for his part he gave her all of him, his wild heart, his impossible strength, his dire need. Onward he moved, reckless now, the bucking of his hips drawing a groan from his lips as her sex clenched and fluttered around him, drawing him deeper, cradling him close, so  _close._

Her arms began to tremble and she collapsed, her forearms taking her weight on the dressing table, the change in angle and the press of her hips against his own drawing another heady moan from her. She fancied she could feel him, all of him, the throbbing vein that ran the length of him, that she had traced with her tongue more than once, the flared head of his shaft, the pulse of his desire, and still he pounded into her, the room echoing with the wet slap of their bodies colliding, her tongue flicking against the groove of his palm, the musty scent of him, of them, making her dizzy. She could feel her own need beginning to coil inside her, her whole body shaking, trembling, so close to release that desperation rose like bile in her throat. She was whining, twisting, gasping in his embrace, unable to do anything more than press back against him and beg him with breaths harsh and needy against his palm to push her from the precipice. The pressure was mounting, building, growing, threatening to tear her in two, the exquisite bliss of his cock, the feverish thrusting of his hips reducing her to her most primal urges. She wanted to reach between her legs and sate that ache with her own fingertips, to feel with her own hands the way he breached her, time and time again, but she could not move as his body curved over her, held her in place against the dresser top.

In a moment of abandon her eyes fluttered open and once more fixed upon the mirror, took in the sight of her flushed face, her breasts quivering with each thrust of his hips, his palm still pressed to her lips, his hand clutching her hip hard enough to leave a bruise, his eyes wide and hungry and fixed upon her. She saw the rippling of his muscles, the strength of him, the sheen of sweat upon his golden skin, the burn of his beard against the side of her neck, the pair of them reckless and utterly base, and she felt herself begin to fall.

" _Now,_  Jean," Lucien growled, and redoubled his efforts, and in a moment she was following his command, her head dropping to hang low as she gave herself over to him, his hand at last abandoning her mouth so that he could clutch her shoulder, drawing her up, her body bowing back towards him as with one final cry she tumbled into bliss. Her body seized up, shook, and then relaxed into wave after wave of trembling ecstasy, her sex gripping him like a vice, and like a man possessed he drove into the flood of her pleasure, releasing himself at last with a groan of bone deep satisfaction.

Tears filled her eyes as he collapsed against her, his soft lips leaving trails of gentle kisses along the rise of her shoulders, the aftermath of their stupendous release leaving her exhausted and shaking and topful with love of him. How could she have ever dreamed of leaving him, this man who understood her so well, who had tried so hard to respect her wishes, to let her be a woman of her own making? How could she ever hope to make a life without him in it, now that she knew how deeply she needed him, how much brighter the world was when he took her in his arms?

They were too weak to stand, too weak to remain where they were, and somehow they tumbled to the floor in a crumpled heap, her body once more draped across his like a blanket. Lucien seemed as wrung out as she, for he could not even lift his arms to hold her, only brushed a kiss against the top of her head and lay beneath her gasping like a fish. The sweat-slicked skin of their chests cooled slowly in the stifling air of the hotel room, their hearts pressed together and pounding in time to one another, and Jean could only weep, softly, knowing now the extent of her folly in choosing to leave him, fearing that it was too late for her to change course.

"Don't leave me, my darling," Lucien whispered after a time, and the hopelessness in his voice tore at her heartstrings afresh. She felt raw and tender, in body as in soul, and could hardly find the words to answer him.  _This changes nothing,_ she thought bleakly.  _God forgive me, I wish it were different, but I have made my choice._

* * *

Jean Beazley was no stranger to hardship, but that afternoon in her hotel room, with her palms pressed against Lucien's chest and his face so close to hers, she had faced the single greatest challenge of her life. Though her very heart cried out for him she had found the words to tell him that she was still leaving, that she could not deny her son when he asked for her aid, that she must of necessity make a life for herself, on her own terms. Nothing had ever been as difficult as looking Lucien Blake in the eye and telling him  _no,_ for her very soul cried out in protest. She had tried to remind herself of how difficult the last few weeks had been, tried to remind herself that however much he may want her in the moment in the end Lucien would remain unchanged, and some puzzle or another would inevitably come and take him from her again. She tried to cling to her independence, and at last found the strength to send him away. The moment he was gone she had curled up in the bed that still smelled of him and wept until she was exhausted enough for sleep to claim her. It might have been the single biggest mistake of her life, sending him away, but she could see no other choice. She had made her promises to herself and to her son, and Lucien's entreaties had come too late.

Still, though, as she waited for the bus to take her away, some small piece of her heart had hoped to see him. When he did not come, when the bus driver called out to her and at last she took her seat, she found that all her doubts and attempts at self-preservation had been justified. He had promised to see her off, and he had not come, for - as she had always known - his priorities laid elsewhere. When she was naked in his arms he made her feel as if she were the center of his world, but the reality was somewhat grimmer. He cared for her, yes, but he cared more for the truth, and she could not, would not accept, his disregard. It would be a long and lonely drive to Adelaide, and the knowledge that she had been right about him along provided scant comfort, but it was all she had to cling to.

But then, oh, then the bus lumbered to a stop, and she was shaken from her melancholic reverie, and her eyes had lifted to find Lucien Blake, his chest heaving, his hat nowhere in sight, his eyes burning into her and every uncharitable thought she had ever harbored against him fled in a moment. With a sense of purpose that set her to trembling he made his way to her, and she moved aside to make room for him at once, her heart pounding in her chest so loudly that she was certain he could hear it. She was leaving, she was  _leaving,_ but he had chosen not to let her go, had thrown aside his pride and his duty and gone screaming through the streets like a madman, had made his way to her side at last, and every doubt she'd ever had crumbled into nothingness.

He breathed her name, but she begged him to stop, not to say the words she could already feel in the pounding of her heart, in the heat of his hands as they wrapped around her own. Jean wasn't sure she could bear it, to hear him tell her that he loved her, not now, when the course of her life had already been decided. She sagged against him, and he pressed a tender kiss to her temple, and the bus rolled on.

_What will we do?_ She asked herself morosely.  _How can we carry on?_

The loan was made, arrangements in place, and Christopher would be waiting for her when the bus lumbered to a stop. She had chosen to make her family her priority, to put aside her selfish wants in the name of helping her son, but her heart ached at the thought of leaving Lucien and their home behind. He had risked everything, in coming to her like this, and she knew that he deserved better from her than stubborn resistance.

_Would it be so very bad,_ she asked herself as the countryside slid past her window, as the warmth of Lucien beside her soothed her aching soul,  _if I did not stay in Adelaide? A few days, a few weeks, perhaps, might be enough to help Christopher and Ruby, and then…_

"Jean," Lucien whispered as the sun rose higher in the sky. "Whatever you decide, wherever you go, I will follow you, my darling. If you'll let me. If you'll have me."

It was as if he could hear her very thoughts. Carefully Jean shifted, sitting upright so that she could pull their joined hands into her lap, so that she could look into his eyes, so very blue, so very earnest. He meant every word, she realized. He had made his choice, and he had chosen  _her._

"I want to come home, Lucien," she confessed, and his answering smile was brighter than the sun outside the dusty window. "I need a little time with my son, but then, I want to come home."

"I will wait for you," he swore. "As long as it takes." He sealed his promise with a kiss pressed to the back of her hand, and for the first time in a very long while, Jean knew what it was to feel content. Yes, she would go to Adelaide, but when her time there was through she would come home, and Lucien would be waiting for her. She could think of no better promise, no brighter future, than him, than her home, than a life they would build, together.


	8. Chapter 8

In some ways, it started slow. A soft smile, a kind word, deep blue eyes, a cup of tea. The brush of a hand, the building of trust, the attempt to understand. Promises and pleas and a thousand favors never requested, always granted. It was a slow, winding, spiraling thing, a path looping round and round the edge of a mountain, switchbacks and curves, the way ahead cloaked in shadow until she burst forth into the sparkling sunlight of the summit. A year, and a few months, and a couple days (and three hours), passing languorous and sweet, summer giving way to autumn, and with it her heart yielding, inch by inch. Slow as the final waltz, swaying, swirling, falling into step.

In some ways it was slow, but in others it had come on so fast she blushed to remember it now. The scratch of a gingham blanket beneath her bare legs, the scratch of his beard beneath her palm. A sharp intake of breath and then a plunge into the unknown, into want, into need, into abandon, dark sky above and the breeze washing across her overheated skin. The wild delight of a dangerous stranger, the heat and the hardness and the pounding desire. And then, oh then, tumbling, again and again, going to confession but biting her lip, holding this piece of her heart in check though she be damned for such deception. Knowing it was folly, knowing it was sin, and yet committing herself to the flames of her own ruination, if only so she could feel the comfort of him beside her while she burned.

She had fallen in love with him slowly, gradually, day by day, as he confided in her, as he revealed himself to her. Eager as a schoolboy, but broken, too, brilliant and tragic and unbearably, unspeakably handsome. Capable of rage and tenderness in equal measure, topful of love for the world and hatred for himself. He was a mystery she wanted to unravel, a heart she longed to mend, a hand she yearned to hold. Kind, and strong, and brave, and shattered.

She had fallen in love with him quickly, the first time he held her close, promised to share his warmth with her, worshipped her with hands tender and true. He was impossible, he was indecipherable, everything about him anathema to her provincial heart, and yet, and yet, and yet she could not stop thinking about him, wondering what he thought of her, longing for his approval, his time, dreaming of him, thoughts conspiring against her.  _I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun,_ words read long ago coming back to her now in light of her new reality.

However it had happened, however he had captured her, body and soul, the thing was done. She loved him, truly.

And one day, one day soon, she would return to him, to that house that had borne silent witness to a thousand lustful transgressions, that place that had begun to feel more like a home, memories of a long, low, lopsided farmhouse and dirt beneath her fingernails fading in light of more pressing yearnings.

One day, but not yet. Not this day, when she stood in the kitchen of her son's tiny home on the army base, washing the breakfast dishes and pausing, now and again, to gaze out the window above the little sink, a soft, secretive smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as her thoughts returned, again and again, to her beloved.

Lucien had come with her all the way to Adelaide. Hours upon hours they sat together on that bus, hardly speaking, hardly daring to breathe, though he refused to let go of her hand, even for a moment. Even as they rose to their feet, when finally the bus trundled to a stop, even as they disembarked, he clung to her. He had not offered her words, to explain his sudden need to claim her, but his eyes had spoken volumes; he had promised himself to her, in every way, had sworn to be hers, to wait out her sojourn in Adelaide however long it might last, to welcome her with open arms when finally she returned home.

There had been a brief, terrible moment when she caught sight of her son and very nearly pulled away from Lucien. Just an instant of doubt, wondering if perhaps it might be best to keep their newfound (but long established) closeness a secret, wondering if perhaps she ought to have been ashamed. But no more than a moment, for Christopher had seen them and Lucien had waved to the lad with a smile brighter than the sun and Jean had not been able to find the strength to let him go. To whatever end, he was hers, and if Christopher did not know before he would know soon enough, and she would not lie to her son.

She did let go of Lucien just long enough to embrace young Christopher, but the moment she stepped back his palm was flush with hers again, his fingers lacing through her own, curling, clutching, needing. Her son's grey eyes, so like her own, had wandered from her face down to her hand and back up again, and though she was blushing when she caught his gaze he only smiled, softly, for the first time in recent memory.

With Christopher's help they got Lucien settled in a hotel, and then he had whisked Jean away in his car.

 _The doc came all this way without a suitcase,_ he'd mused, his eyes staring straight ahead though all his attention was clearly fixed on his mother.

 _Well,_ Jean had stammered.  _It wasn't exactly planned._

Christopher just hummed.  _I'm glad he's here, anyway._

And as if to prove his point, Christopher had invited Lucien round for dinner, three times, and three times he had accepted. They had hardly seen one another otherwise; Ruby was in a dreadful state, lethargic, prone to weeping at the slightest provocation, still mending from a painful delivery, and Amelia was an unhappy child, unwilling and unable to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time. It was Lucien, dear, sweet Lucien, who had discerned the cause of her distress the very day they arrived from Ballarat, the first time he came round for dinner. It seemed that the only thing Ruby would eat was peanut butter on toast, and it seemed that particular diet was not agreeing with little Amelia. With a voice calm and soft as if he were coaxing a wild horse Lucien had convinced Ruby to try something else, and within a day it was as if the sullen, squalling baby had been replaced with another child altogether. Seeing Amelia content lifted Ruby's spirits, and in less than a week the entire atmosphere of that little house had completely changed.

Thanks to Lucien.

Lucien, who would be going back to Ballarat the very next day.

Christopher had once more invited the good doctor for dinner, and Jean was quite looking forward to seeing him, though she was admittedly rather cross that they had not managed to spend any time alone together. There was just so much to  _do;_ the house needed cleaning, and Ruby needed constant encouragement, and there were nappies to change, and Jean could hardly sneak off for a tryst with her one-time employer, no matter how she might long for it. The thought of going days, or even weeks, without seeing him left Jean feeling rather bereft, as he had been a constant presence in her life for so long now that she had grown quite accustomed to him. The one bright spot, however, was a brief conversation she'd had with Christopher, in which her son had whole-heartedly agreed that there was no need for her to stay on permanently.  _Maybe a month,_ he'd said, softly.  _Maybe not even that long. Honestly, mum, you've helped so much already._

A gentle knocking on the front door startled Jean from her reverie, but even as she turned away from the sink, curious as to who might be calling at this time of the morning, Ruby was answering the door and young Christopher was walking in the kitchen.

"Mum," he said, his voice drowning out the sound of Ruby and their guest speaking in the foyer. "The baby's just gone to sleep, and it's beautiful day. I think I might take Ruby to the park, if you don't mind watching Amelia?"

Jean smiled. He had always been such a sweet boy, her Christopher, and though Ruby was not the sort of girl Jean would have chosen for him, it warmed her heart to see how he doted on her.

"Of course," she said. It would be no great imposition, to look after her sleeping grandchild for an hour or two, especially now that Amelia was so recovered from her poor humor, and in truth Jean was rather looking forward to the chance to spend some time alone, in peace and quiet, to consider the state of her life, all the things she wished for, all the dreams that now seemed within her grasp.

He returned her smile. "Good. Thanks."

And then he turned away, and as he left the kitchen he passed their guest.

"Doc," he said softly as he went.

"Christopher," Lucien murmured, grinning fit to burst. "Enjoy the park."

Jean stood spellbound, staring at him, feeling rather lost. Where had he come from? How? Why? Had they planned this?

They must have done, for Christopher had not been surprised to see Lucien, and by the time Jean gathered her wits her son and his wife were already out the door, speaking softly to one another while Lucien lingered on the edge of the kitchen, tugging awkwardly at his waistcoat and looking at her with hopeful eyes.

"Hello, Jean," he said to the accompaniment of the sound of the front door closing. They were alone, now, properly alone for the first time since the hotel in Ballarat, and Jean found her heart suddenly racing. Strange, that he should inspire such a response in her, when she had already tumbled beneath the bedsheets with him more times than she could count, when she had shared her meals with him most every day, seen him in his pajamas, darned his socks. Surely, she thought, such constant familiarity should with time ease the sudden flush of yearning that filled her when he looked at her, and yet, she found if anything his proximity only delighted her more with each passing day. Especially now, now that they had been so honest with one another, now that she knew for a certainty that the burgeoning feelings of love and devotion that had been steadily growing in her chest for over a year now were returned.

For a moment she was torn between the urge to rush across the kitchen and straight into his arms, and the urge to scold him for conspiring with her son to arrange this little liaison. A fleeting, uncharitable thought occurred to her as she watched him fidgeting there in the doorway; had he only come to get into her knickers? They had developed a rather bad habit, over the course of their acquaintance, of solving problems with fervent kisses and grasping hands, rather than sitting down and talking as civilized people. Much as she enjoyed - and hungered for - his attentions, she knew that at some point they would have to still their wild hearts and be frank with one another.

He seemed so earnest, though, so pleased to see her, so hopeful, so full of his boundless, characteristic exuberance that she dismissed any thought of his harboring nefarious intentions. He had come to see her, had spoken with her son and likely charmed the lad and Ruby as well, and arranged for them to spend a few stolen minutes together, and she was grateful to him.

"Hello, Lucien," she answered softly, and the warmth in her voice had a smile blossoming across his face in an instant.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, beginning the long, slow journey from his post in the doorway to her side. "I thought we needed to talk, before I go back to Ballarat, and this seemed the best way. Christopher thought it might do Ruby some good to get out of the house."

Jean hummed her agreement. Ruby was an anxious, somewhat neurotic girl, always looking for reassurance, always certain that every minor inconvenience was a disaster, and spending every moment of every day at home caring for an infant had left her wrung out and wrecked. It would be good for her to get some fresh air, to do something as simple, as normal as stroll through the park with her husband.

"I just need to finish washing up," Jean told him, turning her attention once more to the sink. "There's tea in the kettle, if you like."

"I'm quite all right, thank you, Jean," he answered, and she smiled, just a little, thinking how very familiar this scene was, the pair of them in the kitchen of a morning, Lucien dawdling behind her while she washed the dishes and the sun shone on her face. It was...nice. Comfortable.  _Right._

As she mused on this, the way they seemed to have fallen into the patterns of a married couple long before such an arrangement had been offered or accepted, the soft sound of his footfall echoed behind her, and in a moment his hands, broad and warm, took up their accustomed place at her hips while his lips descended upon the column of her neck, soft and enticing, the brush of his beard against her skin sending a shiver down her spine.

"Lucien," she breathed out a warning, but her lover only laughed, gently.

"I've missed you, Jean," he told her. "Not just this," he added quickly, giving her hips a little squeeze. "I've missed the sound of your voice. It isn't the same, coming over here for dinner. I want you, in our house, with me. Always."

Perhaps it was a bit presumptuous, a bit possessive of him to speak to her in such a way, but Jean could not fault him for it, for she wanted the same things. She wanted him soft and sleepy in the mornings, warm and intently focused on her in the evenings, wanted the brush of his hand against the small of her back and the lull of a meandering conversation.  _Our house,_ he'd said, and it warmed her heart to hear it, to hear him acknowledge that the house on Mycroft was every bit as much her home as it was his, that it worked best when they were there, together.

"I'll be home soon, Lucien," she promised him. Behind her he lowered his head, rested his chin against her shoulder, and she fancied she could almost see his pout.

"I know," he sighed. "And you're doing the right thing, helping young Christopher. You always do the right thing, my darling. And i don't want to take you away from your son."

"I know," she answered, reaching out blindly to pat his cheek with a damp hand. And she did know, for Lucien understood better than most the importance of family, having lost his own.

"You stay as long as you need to," he said. "I shall wait eagerly for your return, however long it takes."

"Not too long, I hope," Jean told him in a playful voice. This earned her a smile; she could not see it, but she could feel it in the brush of his lips against her neck.

"No," he breathed against her skin. "Not too long. I need you, my darling Jean."

She recognized that tone of voice; perhaps it was the familiarity of their current situation, or perhaps it was the warmth of her body pressed snug to his own, or perhaps it was just that his want of her lingered, always, just on the edge of his consciousness. Whatever the reason, it would seem that Lucien was interested in more than words, now, that his restraint had reached its breaking point. His hands slid across her body, palms pressed flat to the plane of her stomach, rising, slowly, ever so slowly, deliberately, intently. She knew what it was he wanted, and she made no move to stop him, merely sighed and leaned back in his embrace, her head resting against his collarbone.

"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he told her as his hands molded to the curve of her breast, kneading her gently. A soft, mewling sort of sound escaped her at his touch; the knowledge of just what he could do to her with those hands had her hungry for him in a moment. She did not take offense at his words, knowing that he had only meant to compliment her, that he earnestly believed them to be true, and chose instead to revel in the knowledge that this handsome, worldly man found her so captivating.

He was beautiful, too, her Lucien, clever and strong and powerful, and she adored him with everything she had. And so she did not stop the journey of his hands, did not pull away when in the shifting of their hips she felt the brush of his growing hardness between them. The baby was asleep, they had the house to themselves, and it would be weeks before they had such an opportunity again. She wanted to take it, to seize this chance for bliss, before it was too late.

With the flexing of his arms and the movements of his body he coaxed her, shifted her, nuzzled at her neck until once more his lips found skin. This was a dangerous game they were playing, but it was Jean's favorite, without a doubt.

One of his hands remained firmly fixed to her breast, thick fingers caressing her, taunting her through the layers of her clothes while the other drifted down, fisted in the fabric of her skirt and drew it up so slowly that Jean was left trembling with anticipation. How many times, she asked herself, had they started in this fashion, standing together in the kitchen, Lucien suddenly intent on baring her stockings and knickers to his feasting eyes? He had told her, more than once, that her workaday underthings were more alluring to him than any lingerie sold in any shop, and she had confessed to him that she found his smartly-tailored suits almost indecent. Such was the nature of love, she supposed, that even the most mundane of characteristics could take on an almost heavenly beauty, when they were bound up in the form of one's beloved.

"Jean," he whispered her name like a prayer, his body curling around hers, nimble fingers dancing across the exposed skin of her thighs above her stocking-tops. "My Jean."

Always he had called her that, from the very first time he had taken her, but it was not until that night in the hotel room that she'd understood just what he meant. She was  _his,_ body and soul, each of them a part of the other, now, inextricably linked, destined, perhaps, for this all-consuming love. In response she reached behind her, one hand curling around the back of his neck, holding him tight to her.

"Yours," she told him, knowing how that word inflamed him, reassured him, knowing that he belonged to her just as fully, as completely, as she did to him.

He was quick and clever with his hands, her Lucien, a surgeon and a musician and quite a skilled lover, and it was no difficult thing for him to find his way beneath her knickers, the angle not quite right as she stood boneless in his grip, her thighs parting for him, his fingertips brushing through the raspy curls at her center.

"I want you with me," he told her as he ventured onward, finding her slippery and swollen with want of him, teasing out the secrets of her desire and smiling against her skin. "Always. I want you by my side, in my bed. I want to hear your voice, and see your face, every moment of every day."

He had always been effusive, her Lucien, and she knew she shouldn't be surprised by how articulate he could be with one hand clutched to her breast and the other in her knickers, tracing the shape of her folds, finding the little nub at her center with expert precision and caressing her towards her bliss, but still, sometimes, it caught her off guard. His feelings for her, the depth of them, had often been a mystery to her, but not now, not in this moment when his hand was slick with her longing and his voice rumbled through her body like the blood in her veins.

It was not in her nature, however, to make such grand declarations. Vulnerability did not come easily to Jean, who had been taught from a young age to keep her chin up and her lips closed. The habits of a lifetime could not be broken overnight, much as she wanted to reassure him, and so she only breathed his name. This seemed to be enough for him, for he captured her earlobe between his teeth and sank one finger into her trembling heat.

 _Anything that feels this good must surely be a sin,_ she thought dimly, though her hips worked against his hand of their own accord, her body already eager for the delights he promised her, if only he would continue. It was a sin, she knew, but a delicious one, and perhaps one day, one day soon, when Amelia and Ruby and Christopher were settled, Jean and Lucien could go about the process of ensuring that their future embraces would be blessed by the church. It was a cheerful thought.  _One last time,_ she told herself.  _One last temptation, and then, oh then…_

All reason left her, however, as Lucien continued to press her, his hardness now making its presence known against the swell of her bum, the advances of his hand growing ever more insistent. Though this was beautiful, in its own way, though she loved him for taking the time to shower her with such pleasure before she'd ever properly kissed him, it was not enough for Jean. They did not have a great deal of time, and there was something else she wanted from him, something more.

* * *

It took him quite by surprise, when Jean whirled in his arms, and he had only an instant to take in the mischievous look in her eyes before she threw her arms around his neck and claimed his lips in a searing kiss. He responded to her at once, soft lips pressing, gasping, nipping, tongues sliding together wet and hot and eager. His arms bound her close to him, this delicate, indestructible creature he loved more than life. She was small but she was fierce, a force of nature more powerful than a typhoon, burning through him hot as a brushfire, and he adored her, truly.

"We don't have much time," she gasped against his lips, and he understood her intent in a moment.

The house was small, and rather cramped. The kitchen opened out in the sitting room, and a short corridor led from the sitting room to two bedrooms and the loo. Little Amelia would be sleeping in one of the bedrooms, and so as Lucien gathered his beloved into his arms and began their stumbling progress away from the sink he did not guide Jean to the other. He did not want to risk opening the wrong door and waking the child, and likewise did not want to risk the sound of their passions disturbing the baby's slumber. There was a more than serviceable sofa in the sitting room, and so it was there his steps led them.

He paused for a moment, his hands in Jean's hair, her own clasped tight to the curve of his bum, drawing him flush to her as her hips swayed in an intoxicating rhythm against his own.  _How best to do this,_ he mused for a moment, but only for a moment, as it seemed his lover had already asked herself that question, and already found an answer to it.

With a gleam in her eye she stepped away from him, and with gentle hands against his chest she pressed him back so that in a moment he was sitting on the sofa, his hands on his knees, staring up at her in wonder. As he watched she smiled, and unzipped her skirt.

His mouth went dry at the sight of her, the smooth, elegant curve of her long legs, the lace of her stocking tops, the span of her hips, everything about her feminine, and soft, and lovely, but then she was grinning at him, slipping out of her undergarments and revealing that most intimate part of herself to his hungry eyes. He would never tire of this, of the sight of her, her beauty, the truth of her person revealed to him without all the bindings their society had placed upon her. He reached for her, desperate to touch her, but she slipped out of his grasp, dropping to her knees as graceful as a dancer.

A strangled groan escaped him as she nudged his thighs apart, making room for her to kneel between them, still wearing her starched blouse, though he had undone a button or two and could see the satin of her brassiere as her breasts strained against the fabric with each of her panting breaths. She ran her hands the lengths of his thighs, from his knees to his hips and back, teasing him, and he felt his longing for her manifest in the almost painful throbbing of his cock. The sight she presented, coy and yet prostrate at his feet, grey eyes wide and bright and fixed on his face, was quite the most enchanting thing he'd ever seen.

She did not make him linger too long, there in that moment of impossible yearning. Those fine, delicate hands he loved so well reached for his belt, her forearm brushing against his hardness through the fabric of his trousers, taunting him.  _Christ,_ but he wanted her, could envision her taking him into her mouth, though he be damned for such salacious thoughts, could almost feel the heat and the wet of her around him. She took her time, relieving him of his belt, but when her hands curled around the waistband of his trousers he lifted his hips at once, helping her as she drew down trousers and trunks together to tangle around his ankles, his cock springing forth proud and ready for her at once.

For a moment she simply looked at him, hunger and devotion and want in her eyes, and the thought that it was  _Jean,_ looking at him this way, seeing him for his baser self and yet adoring him anyway, was almost more beautiful than he could bear. He loved that woman, with everything he had, and he wanted, very much for her to touch him.

"Jean," he breathed, reaching out to tangle his fingers in her hair.

Her thick eyelashes fluttered against her porcelain cheeks at the touch of his hand, and then she reached for him, one hand curling around the hard muscle of his thigh while the other wrapped around the base of his shaft and he was forced to use every ounce of restraint he possessed to keep from groaning aloud in want and desperate need.

This side of Jean had been a revelation to him, the wanton, willful creature she could be. He had supposed that given her limited experience and her puritanical background she would shy away from such undignified desires and yet at every turn she had surprised him, had been eager to touch him, to taste him, to learn what he liked. And though he had tried so very hard not to push her, to respect whatever boundaries she chose to draw for herself, he had delighted in this most salacious of educations. She leaned towards him, full lips parting, and the wash of her breath against the head of his cock sent a shiver down his spine.

But then, oh then, those soft lips were on him, warm tongue flicking against overheated flesh, following the thick vein that ran the length of his shaft down and back up again, and his vision went black and his very soul seemed to cry out for her. In that moment she controlled him utterly, could have done anything she wished with him, and he would fall at her feet and thank her for it, so delicious was the sensation of her mouth upon him, the vision of her prim and proper as a schoolmarm and yet kneeling at his feet and doing such wonderful things to him.

It was not the first time she had bestowed such a gift upon him, and he prayed it would not be the last. Slowly, ever so slowly, she took him into her mouth, watching him with eyes that burned straight through the heart of him, his hand still tangled in her hair. He did his best to control himself, not to thrust up against her, to let her guide him through this pleasure at her own pace, but he was burning alive with need of her. The press of her lips, the swirl of her tongue, all of it combined into a heady cocktail he was not certain he could survive.  _Yes,_ he was enjoying this, rather more than he should, but there was more he wanted from her.

"Jean," he gasped, dangerously close to losing all control. "Come here, my darling."

She smiled at him, around him, and then scrambled up to straddle his lap in a moment. They laughed, bumping noses and elbows as they rearranged themselves, but then she was rising up on her knees and her hand was wrapping around his cock and he was groaning her name and then, oh then…

" _Fuck, Jean,"_ he gasped, the curse falling from his lips more readily than it had done since his days as a soldier, and in response she only whimpered as he breached her, throwing her head back in bliss, sinking down onto him slowly, so slowly he felt he might perish with the want of her.

"Good things come to those who wait," she told him. With her hands on his shoulders she leaned towards him, her forehead resting against his own, their noses slanting together, their lips millimeters apart, sharing the same panting breaths as she moved above him, over him, around him. The soft, fluttering muscles of her sex clutched at him, drew him in, deeper and deeper. With his feet planted flat on the floor for leverage he thrust up against her, matching her languid rhythm, utterly undone by the intimacy of this moment. They were both still wearing their shirts and his trousers were in a tangle at his feet but she was  _close,_ so unbelievably, brilliantly close, warm and soft, a living, breathing piece of his heart. She was wet and welcoming, as if she had been formed to fit him, and he felt every nuance of her pleasure as she ground down against him. He wanted to take her breasts in his mouth, wanted to leave the marks of his teeth against her skin, wanted to clutch her bum, wanted to reach between them and push her over the edge into ecstasy, but the nature of their position on the sofa and the way she'd wound her body around him necessitated a focus on the immediate. There was nothing but this, the sound of his gasps, her whimpers of pleasure, her curls brushing against his temple light as a feather, the rising and falling of her hips, the plunge of his cock within her, over and over again. Half-dressed and yet stripped bare they moved together, rocking, grinding, shifting, desire coiling low in his belly. She was a vixen, a siren, a goddess, and he was helpless before her.

She called his name, softly, knowing she could not be as loud as she might have wished, and he felt her begin to tremble, felt her sex clutching at him as at last euphoria began to overtake her, and he watched as in his arms she fell apart, tensing, arching, yearning, her thighs gasping at him, her hips grinding against him, hungry for him, for all of him, every inch, every ounce. She keened, high and sweet, until at least she broke, and the glory of her abandon was his undoing. He tightened the hold of his arms around her body, bound her to him, and thrust into her pleasure until she was almost weeping, delirious and oversensitive, and he at last tumbled from the precipice himself, her name a fervent whisper on his lips.

* * *

They remained where they were for a time, sated and spent and deliriously happy with one another. Her arms were looped around his shoulders, his own gathered loosely around her waist, their foreheads touching gently.

"What did you tell him?" Jean asked him. The question had been on her mind since she first saw Lucien, and now seemed as good a time as any to ask it, when they were content, at peace with one another and the choices they had made.

Lucien hummed, a soft, questioning sort of sound.

"Christopher. What did you tell him, to get him to agree to this?"

"Oh, that," Lucien said, and she felt the rumble of his words where their chests were pressed flush together. "If you must know, I told him that I needed to speak to you. I told him that want, very much, to make you my wife one day, if you'll have me."

Jean raised her head to stare at him incredulously, her heart hammering in her chest once more. He had never, not once, stated his intentions so plainly, and the fact that he had found it in himself to be so honest with Christopher of all people - before he'd even asked her! - was at once both strange and rather...nice. It was  _nice,_ to think that he might have such an open, friendly relationship with her son, that he might take the boy's feelings into account before stepping out along the path he'd chosen for himself.

"You did what?" she asked him faintly.

Beneath her Jean's lover just smiled, and reached up to brush back a lock of her hair.

"I told him the truth," he said simply. "I want to marry you, Jean."

She gave a little  _hmph,_ trying to mask her pleasure at his words, the way her heart sang out in joy.

"A girl does like to be asked, Lucien," she chided him gently. Desperate for something to do, some way to keep her mind occupied and keep the tears of relief from spilling out of her eyes she reached between them and fussed with his waistcoat, now wrinkled beyond all repair.

"Oh believe me, Jean," he told her. "I will ask you. When the moment is right. When you come back to me, my darling."

For a moment she simply stared at him, his impish smile, his neat beard, his warm blue eyes, and wondered at how strange, how marvelous, how lovely it was, that they had found one another, that they had trusted one another, that they had somehow, despite the differences in their character and experiences, found one another. Before Lucien, Jean had given up all hope of every claiming such love, such passion, such comfort for herself; she had loved her Christopher, loved him truly, and before Lucien, she had believed that she would never again be so enraptured and delighted. And yet he had come to her, this handsome, wounded man, with a heart that understood her own so well, and they had fallen into love and into lust, and here he sat, nestled between her thighs, promising her everything. Promising himself, his devotion, his name, his home, his very life to her. There was nothing in the world Jean wanted more.


	9. Chapter 9

It was just so wonderfully, unbelievably lovely to be home again. Jean sighed as she floated through the house, borne aloft on a wave of contentment, fingertips trailing against the tabletops half in an effort to inspect for dust and half out of sheer delight. Oh, she had enjoyed her time with Christopher and his family well enough; Amelia was a charming child, now that her early discontent had been dealt with, and any moment spent with Christopher was a treasure to his mother. But when the call had come in that Matthew Lawson had been injured, Jean had wasted no time in packing her things and making her way back home. Not just for Matthew's sake, but for Lucien's as well; he had a tender heart, beneath the bravado and the bluster, and she knew it must have shaken him, to see his dearest friend so gravely injured, to have assumed responsibility for saving not only his leg but his life as well. Lucien would need her now, she knew, and there was nowhere else she would rather be than here, at home, with him. Young Christopher had understood, had only kissed her cheek and smiled and asked her to ring him when she got home, to let him know she was safe. His understanding, and his concern for her, touched Jean's very heart; he was not a particularly demonstrative young man but he had, in his own quiet way, offered his support. Whatever choice she made, as regarded her future and Lucien's place in it, she knew that Christopher would stand behind her, and that was a beautiful thing.

The clink of a glass against wood drew her attention to the study where Lucien was occupying himself this afternoon, and Jean's footsteps led her there quite without her realizing it. Yes, it was lovely to be home, even if Lucien had scared the life from her, had nearly died the very day she returned home to him. A shiver a fear coursed the length of her spine at the memory; she didn't even want to consider what might have happened had she not arrived in time. A solid whack with a heavy wrench and some quick work with the car jack had saved his life, a few minutes spelling the difference between his salvation and her utter devastation. Jean had already lost the man she loved once, and she would not, could not bear to endure such loss again. Especially now, when they were both of them so full of hope, when Lucien had confessed his intention to propose and she had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that when he asked she would accept him.

For a moment she stood in the doorway, studying him at work. His brow was furrowed as he poured over his notes, whiskey glass in one hand and a pen in the other. He was handsome, he was kind, he was clever, he made her laugh, made her cry his name in ecstacy, brought to her life a sense of purpose, of adventure, that had sorely been lacking in recent years, and Jean had never felt quite so alive as she did when he held her. He was reckless enough to confront a murderer on his own, stubborn and skilled enough to take a calculated risk that ensured Matthew Lawson would keep his leg, and he was possessed of a heart so tender that she could see every ounce of the affection he felt for her each time he looked her way.

What would it be like, she asked herself, when she did at last marry this man? For over a year now they had been tumbling into bed together, had come to understand one another, to love one another, to rely on one another in everything that they did. He brought his problems to her and she unpicked them with grace and love, and she brought to him her uncertain heart and watched as he patched up every broken piece of her. She wanted, oh but she wanted, to claim him publicly, to fall asleep beside him, to know that the love they shared was not a sin but a union blessed by God. She wanted everything, everything he was, everything they could be together, wanted it so badly she ached with it. He had said that when the time was right, when she came home to him, he would ask her, properly. Now it fell to Jean to wait; patience, however, had never been her strong suit.

As if he sensed her lurking Lucien raised his head, and smiled when he caught sight of her. Oh, that smile; she would never grow tired of seeing it. When she had come to him in the hospital, when their eyes had caught across the corridor, the sight of his smile, the relief etched into every line of his face, the palpable need that arced between them had set her heart to racing. They had been drawn to one another then, as if by some unfathomable, unstoppable force, and she felt that same tug low in her belly as she looked at him now, the lines etched across his dear, sweet face deepening with delight as he drank in the sight of her.

It was late afternoon, there were no patients to be seen that day, Mattie was out, and so Jean did not hesitate. She went to him at once, and with a courage she hardly knew she possessed she perched herself on his desk, crossing her legs demurely at the ankle and watching him with a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Lucien's eyes darkened, as she settled herself on top of his paperwork, demanding his full attention at once. Ever so casually she reached out and took the glass from his hand, stealing a sip for herself. It burned as it went down, the taste of it still new and somewhat unpleasant to her, but she did it just the same, just for the pleasure of seeing how Lucien swallowed hard and focused all of himself on her in a moment. She felt powerful, when he looked at her that way, his pupils blown wide with longing and adoration, his lips parted as if he could think of nothing else save kissing her. Times like this she knew he would give her anything she asked of him, all of himself, without hesitation, without reservation. She felt beautiful, desired, treasured beyond all measure, and she could not help but smile at him, that power coursing through her veins more intoxicating than the liquor she'd drunk.

Carefully she set the glass down behind her and reached for him at once, cradling his cheek in her palm. This was one of her favorite things, watching the way his eyes closed in bliss, the way he pressed himself into her touch as though he were as starved for affection as she herself had been before he came to her, as though there was nothing in the world he wanted more than her hands on his body, even in this most chaste of touches. She loved the scratch of his beard beneath her palm, loved to reach out and trace the fullness of his bottom lip with her thumb, loved the way her heart sang at his proximity, the comforting heat of their skin pressed close together, even with such distance between them.

"Hello," she breathed, and in response his smile deepened.

"Hello, my darling," he answered her, and she felt a little flutter in her chest at the deep rumbling sound of his voice, the casual affection of the endearments that tripped so easily from his tongue when she was near.

"Are you terribly busy?" she asked him.

Lucien's eyes flew open, sparkling at her mischievously, and in response she only arched her eyebrow at him, daring him to suggest there was anything improper behind her inquiry. Truth was, her intention was salacious indeed, for she had not been alone with him for weeks, except for a few quiet moments spent beneath a car in the garage, and she wanted, very much, to celebrate her homecoming properly. Dreams of him had sustained her while they were apart, but now he was here, flesh and blood beneath her hands, and dreams alone would not suffice. She wanted him, his heat, his hardness, his earnest passion, wanted to feel the strength of the connection that bound them together, that had set their feet upon the path to joining their lives together forever.

"Oh, I think I can spare a few minutes," he answered, grinning.

Jean caught his face in both her hands, trailed her fingertips across his cheeks, over the line of his jaw, down the thick, corded muscle of his neck. He possessed such power, such latent, undeniable strength; he could lift her as easily if she weighed nothing at all, could take her anywhere, any way he chose, and yet never did he use that strength to intimidate her, to force her to give him anything she had not already willingly placed in his hands. Powerful, and yet utterly, wholly devoted to her; it made for a heady combination, his strength and his adoration. He shivered beneath her touch, and in response she only smiled, caught his lapels in her hands and gently tugged.

Yes, he was larger, stronger, heavier than she, but when her gentle hands pulled him to her he moved at once, rising to his feet. His hands settled heavily on the desk on either side of her hips, and he followed the unspoken request of her hands, still pulling him towards her, ducked his head and sought the fullness of her lips with his own.

It was gentle, this kiss they shared, as he loomed over her and yet bowed to her every whim. His lips were soft and sweet, their noses nestled side by side, his beard rough against her tender cheek.

"Welcome home, my darling," he whispered, and kissed her again.

She sighed and slid her arms from his chest around the back of his neck, drawing him towards her. Without a second thought she uncrossed her legs and made room for him to stand between her thighs, and she felt his answering grin through the slowly rising passion of their kisses. Those hands she loved so well curled around her thighs beneath her skirt, fingertips brushing enticingly against her skin, and she felt a wave of heat flood her belly, felt her desire for him rising, higher and higher. Those hands, those fingertips; she wanted them against her, wanted the delight they promised her, wanted the wild, unbridled feeling of accepting every ounce of his love for herself.

Before this thing between them had begun, she would never have imagined that she would ever allow a man who was not her husband to take such liberties, that she would ever be willful, wanton enough to perch on his desk and let him curl his hands around her thighs and allow the invasion of his dastardly tongue between her lips, but in the moment she did not spare a single thought for propriety or regret. It was far too late, to try to toe the line of some long-forgotten morality; this was a familiar sin, now, and one she looked forward to with every fiber of her being. This was a choice she had made months before, when she had allowed them to fall together a second - and a third - time, when she had tossed aside her every chance for a life with a more respectable man and taken up with a scoundrel instead. He was  _her_ scoundrel, now, and she would have no other.

* * *

There was nothing that delighted Lucien more than seeing Jean ask for him, his time, his affection, in her own way. He exulted in it, reveled in it, trembled at the thought that this beautiful, passionate woman could desire him so completely. Over the course of their occasionally tumultuous affair she had only grown more confident, and the strength of her desire, her need for him, only increased his own longing for her. He wanted her, with everything that he had, was already planning his proposal, the first steps on the journey that would set them up together for the rest of their lives.

That was a matter for another day, however, for at the moment he could think of nothing else save how he had pined for her during the long days of her absence, how lonesome he had been for her, how wonderful it was to have her back here, in their home, where she belonged. She was so beautiful, his Jean, soft and warm and unbearably, undeniably, overwhelmingly feminine. The curve of her hip, the softness of her skin, the warmth of her thighs, the gentle sound of her laughter; everything about her enchanted him, enthralled him, inflamed him. Seeing her like this, perched on the edge of his desk, knowing she would let him have here if he asked it of her, had his passion for her growing by the second.

He shifted closer to her, slid his hands from her thighs around to the curve of her bum, and pulled her closer to the edge of the desk. Caught in the cages of her thighs he leaned into her, let his trousers and the growing desire they contained brush against her inner thigh just above her stocking tops, groaned when he felt her shiver and arch toward him hungrily. It seemed there was hardly a room in the house that had gone untouched by their desire, and yet as near as he could recall they had never shared anything more lascivious than a few quick kisses in his study. He rather liked where this was heading, liked the idea that in all the days to come he would sit at this desk and remember the heat of her, the taste of her, the soft sound of her begging for him as he took her against the desk. She was brilliant, his Jean, for she had seized the opportunity to give him a gift he never would dare ask from her, and yet wanted with every fiber of his being.

While still they kissed, growing more demanding in their affections, he allowed his hands to wander, rucked her skirt up around her hips so that he could see, at last, the damnable eroticism of those stockings he loved so well, soft white lace against smooth pale skin. It was a heady reminder of just what they were doing, the risk they were taking, falling together in the middle of the day. As he reckoned it they had plenty of time to sate their hunger for one another before Mattie came home in search of her supper, but still, the door to the study was open, and the sun was high in the sky, and his blood surged white-hot and molten in his veins at the very thought.

His teeth sank into her lip and his hand curled hard around her thigh and she whimpered and pressed closer to him, accepting the ferocity of his attentions and at once turning her own hands to his body. Without pretense she tore the jacket from his shoulders, grinning as they struggled with one another, their bodies arching, pressing, hungry and insistent for more contact, more fire, more of everything. His waistcoat was next; her fingers set to his buttons while his own fingers sought hers, eager to have her bare before him. The waistcoat fell to the floor and he peeled apart her blouse, left it hanging loosely on her shoulders while his hands gravitated at once to the swell of her breasts, encased in a soft satin bra, edged with a shocking black lace he had never seen before.

"Jean," he growled between fervent kisses, leaving it up to her to work out the question he did not voice.

"It's new," she told him conspiratorially, laughing when he groaned aloud. Would there be more surprises like this waiting for him when they finally wed? What would it be like, he asked himself, to undress her at the end of every day, to become intimately familiar with not just the heat of her body but all the little details, all the little rituals that composed the quiet inner life she hid from everyone else? He wanted that, more than words could say, wanted her soft and without artifice, stepping from the bath, folded into bed beside him. He wanted  _her_ , in every possible way.

And it seemed she felt much the same, for while his hands were busy tracing the shape of her beneath her unbuttoned blouse her own tugged at the knot in his tie until at last it came free and she allowed it to flutter to the ground. Jean wasted no time in unbuttoning his collar, her fingers dipping beneath the fabric to find the heat of his skin, the pad of her thumb resting on his Adam's apple, bobbing as he swallowed hard against the wave of affection that threatened to drown him at her touch.

His hands crested the swell of her breast, fingertips searching out the soft heat of her skin beneath the dark lace, thinking only how beautiful she was, how hungry he was for her. He wanted to strip her bare, wanted to taste the salt of sweat on her skin, wanted to drape her legs over his shoulders and send her into howling ecstacy while he drank deeply of her desire for him, but he feared that his own need to sheath himself inside her would not allow him the time to take such liberties. One of his hands traced beneath her skirt, his palm searching out the place where she was hot and wet and ready for him, and in response she sighed, delightedly, and pressed herself more firmly against him.

"I love you, Jean," he breathed, ducking his head to press a string of tender kisses along the perfect column of her throat.

Her hands stuttered to a halt against his neck and she cast her head back on her shoulders, grey eyes bright and full of questions as she caught his gaze, and all at once he realized what he had done. Never, not once, had he told her so plainly how he felt for her, and he had just gone and done it while she sat on the edge of his desk with half his clothes discarded in a pile on the floor. For a moment he was well and truly terrified that she might take offense at the timing of his revelation, that she might demur, that she might be cross with him, but as he watched she only caught her kiss-swollen lip between her teeth and smoothed her palms across his cheeks.

"Silly man," she breathed in a trembling voice.

"You must know, my darling," he forced himself to say, his whole body tense and taut and desperate for her. "You must know that I love you."

She was quiet, but only for an instant.

"Of course I do, Lucien," she told him. "And you must know that I love you, too. I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

It was true, of course, that he suspected she must harbor the same depth of affection for him that he did for her, in order to take such a risk, to come back to him when her son and his family were so very far away. He had longed for that love, somewhere deep in his heart, but he had not allowed himself to really consider it, and he was blown away by the response her gentle words inspired in him.

Without pause he reached for her, his lips crashing into hers, his tongue curling into her mouth as he sought to fold himself within the warmth of her body, to lose his loneliness and his grief and find only the blissful joy of Jean, his beautiful Jean, who loved him, who supported him, who had stood by him through countless calamities. She returned his ardor with equal fervor; those small hands ghosted down the plane of his chest, set a course for his belt at once.

With a gasp he tore his lips from hers, turned his attentions once more to her neck while she removed his belt, unfastened the button on his trousers. Everything was happening so quickly, now, a whirlwind of sensation, and he could not, would not stop it, not for anything. With the tip of his nose he brushed aside her hair and planted kisses just behind her ear, in the spot that made her shiver every time he touched her there, but before he could truly begin to plot his advances her delicate hand slipped beneath the waistband of his unbuttoned trousers and wrapped at once around his hardness.

A groan of desperate longing tore from his throat and he thrust against her hand, mindlessly, desperately, needfully.  _Christ,_ but she knew just how to touch him, how to drive him mad with need of her. He lifted his head, intent on capturing her lips once more, but before he could movement in the doorway behind them caught his eye.

It was Mattie.

She had only just stepped into view, her mouth open to speak, but when she caught sight of them tangled together against the desk she swayed to a stop, lifting her hand to her lips as if to stifle any sound she might make. Her eyes went wide with shock, and then landed on Lucien's face. He held his breath, frozen, terrified, as she stared at him, and he at her. Mercifully he knew she could not see what Jean was doing to him, had no way to know just how untoward their clinch really was. All she would see was Jean sitting - fully clothed - on the desk with Lucien between her legs, his jacket and tie discarded but his shirt still very much in place. She could see that Jean had burrowed her face into Lucien's neck, could perhaps hear the soft wet sounds of Jean's gentle kisses, but she could not see that Jean had freed his cock from his trousers and was even now stroking him into a frenzy - or at least trying to, for at the sight of Mattie his desire had begun to deflate at once.

Panic gripped him; the last thing he wanted was to subject their young lodger to the carnal reality of their affections, but he was saved from further distress by the nature of their position and the sudden, mischievous grin Mattie shot his way. Quiet as a ghost she turned and disappeared into the corridor.

What must she think of them? Her smile had been knowing, not appalled; had she noticed before, he wondered, just how close Jean and Lucien had become? Did she approve, then, of the romance that had blossomed between them?

"Lucien?"

There was a note of confusion in Jean's voice; never before had her attentions failed to rouse him so spectacularly, and likely she was worried that something was amiss. Something  _was_ amiss, of course, but he could not let her know that; Mattie thought they were only kissing, but would still likely give them a wide berth for the rest of the afternoon. For Jean's sake he would prefer to forget that the encounter had happened at all, and so he only reached for her. One hand snaked beneath her bra, intent on finding the hard-furled bud of her nipple, while the other ghosted along her thigh, searching for access to her tender heat beneath her clothes. Jean gasped, and then leaned forward to trace the shell of his ear with her tongue, and his cock jumped to attention in her hand in a moment.

Jean laughed, and Lucien breathed a sigh of relief, and their tryst continued without further interruption.

* * *

He was like a man possessed, now. Whatever momentary distraction had plagued him earlier must surely have been dealt with, for now she was burning alive beneath the heat of his attentions. Rough hands, strong and sure, slipped beneath her skirt, dealt with buttons and clasps and the soft satin of her knickers until at last he revealed her to him, wet and wanton and open for him. The inherent risk of being caught out sitting on her employer's desk with her hand around his hardness and her knickers in a pile at their feet set her blood to racing, and with one hand she caught his hip, drew him closer to her until she could feel the length of him pressed against the bare skin of her thigh.

Lucien groaned and reached for her as well, thick fingers tracing the shape of her folds, catching the wetness that had gathered there and coating them both with it, teasing her desire higher and higher with every pass of his fingertips. A most undignified sort of sound left her as she ground down against his hand, base and hungry for him, and he rewarded her with a frenzy of kisses, his tongue heavy and certain between her lips just as his forefinger slid with purpose between her slippery folds. For weeks she had been without him, and in his absence her need of him had grown into a wild, ragged thing; Jean knew what joy he could bring her with his hands, his lips, his tongue, but that was not the sort of release she was seeking now. Now she wanted  _him,_ wanted the hard, hot length of him inside her, wanted their bodies joined as close as two people could possibly be. She wanted rapture and delight, wanted to shatter in the grip of his broad hands, wanted everything he had to give her, and more besides.

With her purpose thus fixed in her mind she spread her legs further against the desk, canted her hips and drew him to her with her hands upon his body. In response Lucien groaned, low and needy, his hands dropping to the desk beside her hips to support himself as his hips surged forward at her prodding. A moment's fumbling, the blunt head of his shaft sliding between her folds, but then he caught, and held, and drove forward with a strength that had her mewling in an instant. Nothing Jean had ever experienced compared to this, the desperation, the wildness, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. She was gasping, panting, arching her back, pressing closer to him, and he gave himself over to her utterly, a wild, reckless beast now hers to command.

Her hands drove beneath his shirt, searching out the heat of his back, the scrape of his scars beneath her palms, drawing him to her. There was comfort in that touch, the ridges of pain that marred his back an anchor to hold her in this moment, to remind her who it was she cradled in her arms, to remind her that despite the horrors he had seen this man, this beautiful, wonderful man had survived, had come home to this place to claim her for his own. Lucien moved with an overwhelming urgency, pulling back and plunging in with a force that left her reeling, the wet sounds of their union only increasing her own desire. Panting, begging, her voice rose higher and higher, and Lucien - perhaps still self-aware enough to acknowledge the risk - tangled his hand in her curls, drew her face hard into the crook of his neck so that the sounds of her pleasure might be muffled against his skin. Again and again he filled her, consumed her, pounded into her recklessly. Still she clung to him, did her best to move against him, to help him as they both drove closer and closer to the precipice of abandon.

"Jean, my Jean," he grunted, softly, and even through the haze of lust that consumed them his voice was full of an open sort of adoration.

"Yours," she gasped against his skin.

He filled her, utterly, no room left for anything but him, the heat of him, the strength of him, the driving need with which he overcame her. The length of him inside her, with each pass striking that place deep within her that turned her bones to jelly, the delicious friction of his hips grinding into hers where they were joined; the need was mounting, building, growing, coiling low in her belly until she felt like to burst from the sheer unbridled joy of it. Still he moved, harder, and harder, until she was almost weeping her abandon, but then his tongue found the shell of her ear and his hands gathered her close to him, drew her down hard onto him, and she was lost. Her teeth sank into the juncture of his shoulder to stifle the sound of her cry as she shattered around him, her tender heat clutching at him, drawing him in deeper, and deeper still, his body wracked with need beneath her hands. Still he moved, thrusting into her pleasure, turning her release into a shocking, all-consuming sort of blaze. She could feel it, could feel the rapture that spiralled from her toes to the crown of her head, the breath torn from her lungs, the sensation so powerful that for one mad moment she thought she might surely die, so fierce was the racing of her heart, the roar of blood in her ears, her fluttering need clenched around his length.

But then Lucien was shattered, as well, his movements stuttering, his breath harsh and needy, his shaft almost jumping inside her as at last he gave himself over to her. Bliss, everything was bliss as he groaned and spilled out his pleasure, as she dragged her fingertips through his hair, as tears of relief painted her cheeks.

They stayed like that for quite some time, joined and gasping, but then Lucien shifted, gathered her into his arms and collapsed back into his chair with Jean in his lap. She grinned, still panting for breath, and nestled herself closer into his embrace.

"I love you," he whispered. "I love you."

* * *

Much later that night, after Jean had sought her bed, Lucien stood alone in the kitchen, lingering over a cup of tea. Whiskey was usually his preference, but he did not want anything to dull his mind, to turn the memories of his titanic joining with Jean into hazy nothingness. He wanted to hold onto that moment, the abandon, the devotion, the utter joy she brought to him. Soon, he told himself. Soon she would be his wife, and he could have her every night, could go to his bed and find her waiting there, eager to hold him.

The issue of Mattie and what she had seen lingered, and his thoughts turned to her at once as he wondered how best to handle the situation. Her gaze had been mischievous, as they sat together to eat their supper, but she had not mentioned it, and Lucien would not dare broach the subject, least of all where Jean might hear. His beloved would be mortified, he knew, and he would lose any chance to hold her again before they were properly wed. It would have to be handled carefully, to protect Mattie's innocence and Jean's reputation, but how? Would it be best to say nothing at all?

As if she had heard his thoughts the young woman came slipping into the kitchen on silent feet, wrapped in a fluffy white robe and smiling at him softly.

"Is there enough for me?" she asked, gesturing towards the kettle.

Lucien stared at her, aghast. Yes, he wanted to address what she had witnessed earlier in the day, but now that she was here he had absolutely no idea what to say to her. In response to her question he nodded, and watched with his thoughts racing as she poured herself a cup, and then joined him at the table.

"I think it's wonderful, Lucien," Mattie said firmly, taking a sip of tea and watching him over the rim of her cup with sparkling eyes.

"I am so sorry, Mattie," he answered at her once. "We never should have-"

"It was bound to happen eventually," she told him with a shrug. "We all know you must care for her. You wouldn't have gone to Adelaide if you didn't."

For the very first time Lucien allowed himself to consider, truly, how they must appear to other people. Oh, he had always known that there was gossip about the pair of them, had wondered idly a time or two if Mattie had noticed the shift in the air between himself and Jean, but he had never really devoted any thought to all the many details that comprised his acquaintance with Jean. When he had jumped on the bus to Adelaide he had done so because he needed her, because he loved her, because he could not bear to be without her, and the fact that other people might learn what he had done and come to the same conclusion had never before even occurred to him. It was obvious now, of course, just how clear his intentions had become. Two people, both of middle age, both widowed, living comfortably together, neither of them seeking companionship outside the home, her fervent defense of him, his devotion to her; it all became so starkly clear to him that he could do nothing save sip his tea and brood in silence.

"Really," Mattie continued, "I'm happy for you both. You deserve this."

She reached out and squeezed his forearm once, gently.

"I love her, Mattie," Lucien whispered into the stillness. It seemed important somehow that she know that, that she understand he had not only wrapped his arms around Jean for the comfort of a warm body, but because he adored her in every possible way.

"I know," Mattie said with a quick little grin. "Just, maybe close the door next time."

Lucien laughed, but before he could say another word she took her tea and left him there, sitting at the table, thinking how much he loved Jean, thinking of the ring he intended to give her, thinking how grateful he was to Mattie for her understanding. Those two bright women had made this house his home, had given him reason to want to stay, to build a life here, and he knew that he would be forever in their debt.


	10. Chapter 10

_You have sinned, and now you know what you must do, my child._

_Did you see? The doctor's wife is back in town._

_Keeps his wife in a hotel and his housekeeper close by, no doubt about what's going on there._

_Can you blame him? She's a fine looking woman._

_I can't blame her. I mean, have you seen him?_

_I want you to know you're not losing anything._

_Some men just need to be saved from themselves._

It was very late, and Jean's head was spinning, a thousand voices whispering to her in the darkness while her conscience shredded itself to pieces and her heart ached as fierce as if each of those words were a knife, shoved in deep. She was caught in a strange, interminable hell, a fish on a line, twisting and leaping and yet unable to prevail against the inexorable force of her own fate, drawing her out of warmth and comfort into the chill harsh light of her own damnation.

_Forgive me father, I have laid with a man who was not my husband._

This sin she had committed with a joyous abandon, relegated her soul to the flames for the sake of the love she carried in her heart, for the sake of the hope that had whispered to her, told her that soon enough he would be her husband, all hers, forever.

_Forgive me father, I have laid with another woman's husband._

This sin she had committed all in ignorance, and Lucien, too, for he had received word shortly after their first tryst that his wife was long dead. The widow and the widower, they had believed themselves to be, their assignations uncolored by the specter of adultery. Until that night, that terrible, horrible night, that night when Jean had for one single shining instant held everything she wanted in the palm of her hand until the wrath of God himself had descended upon her in the form of one small, wild-eyed woman.

_Lucien? Who is it?_

_My wife._

Strange, how those two words had left her red-faced and gasping, fighting back a rush of tears as if she had just taken a punch to the gut. Strange, how two simple words could so completely shatter her very soul. One moment Lucien was sitting beside her with a ring in his hand, his lips parted, the one question she longed to answer more than any other hovering in the air between them, and the next he was standing in the corridor with his arms around his wife, his wife who was not Jean, his wife who he had search for, for years uncounting, his wife who had borne his child, who had known him as Jean had only ever dreamed of doing. His  _wife,_ real, and here, and alive, and Jean did not need a priest to tell her what she already knew. He was her Lucien no longer, this brave, beautiful man to whom she had given every piece of herself. He belonged to Mei Lin, and no words whispered to her in the stillness of the kitchen would change that.  _You aren't losing anything,_ he'd told her, and she'd fought back against a sudden wild urge to strike his face; Jean had lost everything, already. Perhaps he still loved her, perhaps he still wished he could have married her instead, but so long as his wife lived, Jean could have no part of him.

And yet she remained in his house, cooking his meals, fetching his tea, haunting the halls late at night hoping for a glimpse of him, hoping to never see him again. She had gone for confession the week before and slowly, haltingly laid the sum total of her sins at Father Emory's feet. She had told him all, how she had carried on with a man who was not her husband, how she had recently discovered this man was married. It was hard, telling him that truth, knowing he would recognize her voice, knowing that the anonymity of the confessional booth could hardly apply in her particular circumstance, and yet likewise knowing that her heart would not find peace until she had spoken her sins aloud, and done her penance.

"You know what you must do, my child," Father Emory had told her, and Jean had begun to weep, because she knew that he was right. She had sinned, had done so gladly and without care, and now the time had come for her to face the consequences. To save her very soul, to protect her reputation, her future, Lucien's marriage, she knew that she would have to leave him. She could not stay in this house, so close to him and yet unable to reach out to him, surrounded by temptation and bitter memories while Lucien pushed his wife away and followed Jean everywhere she went with hungry eyes. The price for her salvation would be the sacrifice of her every dream. Knowing this, knowing that it was vital she depart, and soon, she lingered yet, not quite ready to tear her heart asunder, for good and all. Tortured by his proximity and devastated by their separation she remained a shadow in that house, head bowed, lips closed, silent tears soothing her into sleep at night.

Earlier that evening she'd found him sitting behind his desk, alone in the darkness, and she'd tried not to think too long or too hard about how those circumstances mirrored their own turmoil. They had been alone, both of them, lost in darkness for weeks now. Nothing made sense, any more. Even the smallest things, the old familiar things, sharing tea and a smile and a quiet conversation, felt wrong, stifling, unbearable. The old gold band weighed heavy on her finger and the darkness weighed heavy on her shoulders and Lucien's voice weighed heavy on her heart; it was all too much for her to bear. And yet, when she stumbled across him, when she'd seen how he sat staring into the middle distance, oblivious to everything around him -  _lucky him,_ she'd thought,  _that he can so easily block out the rest of us -_ she had been unable to turn away. She should have done, knew she should have done, and yet she had only turned on the light, had only spoken to him softly, drawn to him the way she always was, a moth to a flame.

And  _oh,_ but he was a flame, destined to destroy her, if he had not done so already. It wasn't all his fault, she knew; Lucien had believed his wife to be as dead as Jean's own husband, had been ready to make his overture to her in good faith, with that sparkling little ring in its little box clutched in his trembling hand. Nothing had been right since the day Mei Lin returned to Lucien's arms at last, not for Jean, not for Lucien, not even - she suspected - for Mei Lin herself. Lucien had not known that each time he held her he was adding adultery to the endless list of their sins, but Jean wasn't entirely sure he would have cared. After all, he was not particularly preoccupied with repentance, this man to whom she had given her heart, her time, her body. He was a worldly man, an ungodly man, a man who drank to excess and smoked and paid no mind to the company he kept, but he had with his charm and his gentle heart swayed her, urged her with his devil's tongue to overlook his many faults, and she had done so gladly, and lay with him more times than she could count.

 _Lie down with dogs,_ her mother used to say,  _and you get up with fleas._

Well, she had them now, in abundance, her skin prickling everywhere she went as people whispered, pointed, stared.  _You know what they're like,_ the voices followed her, even here, to this house, this place that had once been a refuge and was become now more like a prison.  _Carrying on, always too close, and now his wife's come back, and good for her, I say._ Even when they did not voice their displeasure the eyes of her neighbors spoke loudly of their judgment. Her relationship with Lucien had always raised eyebrows, but the gossip had never been as ubiquitous as this. Added to that was the knowledge that each time she looked in Mei Lin's eyes she was looking into the face of a woman she had wronged, a woman whose husband's affections Jean had stolen for herself. She was left squirming, uncomfortable, with no safe quarter to turn to, no friend to steady her, only guilt and recrimination and the howling vortex of disappointment that swirled within her chest. They had come so  _close,_  but Jean's dreams had been dashed, yet again.  _Not for you, such a happy life,_ the very universe seemed to tell her. It would have been different if they'd been properly wed, though Jean had thought about it at length and found she could not determine which would be worse, to be an adulteress or a bigamist. Whispers and nightmares and tears and her conscience tearing itself to pieces and having to call another woman  _Mrs. Blake;_ Jean wasn't sure how much more of it she could take.

 _He locks his wife up in a hotel and keeps his housekeeper at home,_ the whisperers said.  _Wonder how much he pays her for her services? Wonder if she's worth it?_

Jean understood why Mei Lin had left, why she had chosen the hotel over Lucien's bed; what would have been the point in her staying, after all, while Lucien refused to share that bed with her? They looked at one another with the hollowed eyes of old soldiers, Lucien and Mei Lin, jumped when they found themselves in close proximity like two people who'd just caught sight of a most distressing ghost. Lucien wanted to do the right thing, Jean knew, but it was as if they hardly knew one another, Lucien and Mei Lin. Every other word out of his mouth offended her in some way, though he meant no harm, and her gaze wounded him each time her eyes turned his way.  _She's a stranger to me now,_ Lucien had told Jean once in desperation.

_She's your wife._

That was a truth Jean could not escape, even if she did not want to face it herself.  _What would you do in his place?_  She had asked herself while they talked, while Lucien's eyes flickered towards her, an agony of indecision written in every line of his dear sweet face.  _If it were Christopher, back after seventeen years, what would you do?_

Sitting in that chair with her heart cracked and aching, Jean wanted to believe there would be no question what she'd do. After all, she'd spent nearly two decades mourning for her husband, praying for his soul, worrying over his children, still wearing his ring no matter how much time had passed. Jean wanted to believe that if she were given such a gift, her husband returned to her arms at last, she would have embraced him without reservation, would have done whatever it took to rebuild their life together, would never spare a second thought for Lucien Blake and all that he had promised her. And yet, she could not silence the little voice that whispered in the back of her mind, urged her to see the truth she so desperately wanted to avoid.

 _You would be just the same as Lucien,_ that voice told her.  _Seventeen years is a long time. People change. You aren't the same woman you were the last time you saw Christopher. You know you aren't. Lucien isn't the man Mei Lin remembers, either._

Thus the course of her thoughts had run, while she and Lucien unpicked the riddle of the hour, sitting too close together while the night shimmered darkly beyond the curtains, running their fingers over the candle flame of temptation, too close for comfort and yet not close enough to ignite. Her gentle words had done the trick, had lifted him out of his fog of melancholy and pointed his feet upon the path to answers, and Lucien had leapt up from his chair like a dog called to heel, taken her face in his hands and pressed a reverent kiss to her forehead before bounding away, to what purpose she could not say.

That kiss; she had buried her face in her hands the moment she heard the front door close behind him, and allowed herself to weep. There had been no passion in his touch, no desire; it was a comforting, longing, loving gesture, borne of his great affection for her, an affection that could not be allowed to blossom while his wife languished alone and unloved in a hotel across town. If it were only lust that bound them together, only base need, it would have been no difficult thing for Jean to draw away from him, but this love, this deep, heady, heart-rending love was an altogether different sort of beast. It was not only Lucien's body Jean had stolen, but his heart, as well, and he held hers in the palms of his trembling hands. This dance they followed now was a delicate sort of annihilation; two steps closer, one step back, hopes rising only to be shredded by disappointment, each touch between them a needle-sharp stab of grief, and yet addictive as the whiskey Lucien depended on for his own sanity. The brush of his hand burned her hot as fire, and she craved her own destruction.

 _No more,_ she told herself as she made her way down the stairs, intent on a cup of tea. Her mind had been spinning since the moment Lucien pressed his lips against her skin, and she could not face spending another moment alone and idle in her room. The tea would give her something to do, would keep her hands busy, and hopefully calm her unsettled nerves. She did not know where Lucien had gone after he kissed her, but the hour was very late indeed, and she was not certain he was coming back.

 _And it's not your place to ask,_ she told herself sternly.  _You're not his wife._

That thought was bitter, and black; she had come so close, so damnably close, to  _being_  his wife, had begun to feel rather as if she was already, but Mrs. Blake was sleeping in a hotel across town, and her face bore no resemblance to Mrs. Beazley's.

She tapped her foot, brought down the sugar bowl, bit her lip, poured her tea, and then settled herself at the kitchen table.

 _I have to leave this place,_ she thought glumly. There were other people who could do this job as well as she, and perhaps Christopher would like to see his mother. That had been the answer once before, a trip to Adelaide, a few days cuddling her granddaughter close. There would be no lover chasing after her bus in the broad light of day, this time, and though it grieved her Jean knew that was all for the good. It would take a few days, perhaps a week or two to make the arrangements; she could have most of her belongings delivered to her sister Eadie's house for safekeeping, just until she was settled. She could ring Christopher, and arrange her bus fare, and make a few discreet inquiries until she found a suitable replacement. Perhaps Evelyn Toohey would be willing to step in again. And then she could leave, and never look back.

Other changes would have to be made in the meantime, she knew. While she set her plan into motion she would have to speak to Lucien, would have to tell him to keep his hands and his kisses and his pleading expression to himself. They had tortured one another enough already, Jean thought; if he kissed her again, she was not certain she would be able to withstand her love of him, and she knew that such a transgression would surely break her in half.

It was the right thing to do, she knew, but never before had the right thing felt so  _wrong._

And so she sat, and planned, and brooded, until her tea went cold, and she rose at last to make her way up the stairs and to her bed once more.

* * *

It was very late, when Lucien came shuffling in through the front door. He'd spoken to Matthew Lawson, drunk more whiskey than was wise, driven to his wife's hotel and stared forlornly up at the cold facade until at last he gave in and did what he had wanted to do all along, and went back home to Jean.

 _Home,_ their home, a house that belonged to her every bit as much as it did to him, four walls that would be empty without her, as was Lucien himself. Jean, his Jean, brilliant, gentle, virtuous and kind, she had given him a home at last, and how could he think to give that up? He knew that Jean believed he must abandon her for Mei Lin, his wife who was proud and sometimes disdainful, sharp tongued and broken, brittle and beautiful and desperate for peace. He feared he could give neither woman what she desired of him, for he could not turn his back on Jean, and he could not be the man Mei Lin needed him to be.

Just inside the door he hung his hat upon its customary peg, and when he turned he felt the breath leave his lungs for there she stood, his Jean, lovely and so very sad that the sight of her was nearly enough to make him weep. Her progress halted there by the stairs, her eyes haunting and dark without the sparkle that he had come to know over the long months of their dalliance; would she turn away from him, seek her bed without sparing a moment to speak to him, or would she linger here with him, bless him once more with the soft sound of her voice?

She did not move, and so he made his way to her at once. It was very late and she was dressed for bed in a soft satin nightdress, pale pink and demurely cut, her face washed clean of makeup and her hair falling unbound all around her angel's face. Some things not even grief could shake, and Jean's loveliness was one. She had endured so much strife already, had learned long ago how to continue on when all seemed lost, and she stood straight-backed now despite the weight of their troubles. Though nothing else about his life made sense she remained his touchstone, the still point of his madly spinning world, steady and reassuring and so damnably beautiful.

"Jean," he breathed as he stepped up close, closer than he had come to her in a fortnight, and though her eyes darted from his face to the stairs and back again in a desperate sort of way she made no move to leave him.

"It's late, Lucien," she said softly, a hint of rebuke in her tone, though he was not sure whether she meant to chastise him for standing with her alone in the corridor after dark or for coming home so late without telling her where he'd gone in the first place.

Yes it was late, and Charlie had long since gone to bed, and all the world was asleep save for the pair of them, standing alone and hovering on the precipice of calamity. It was precipice from which Lucien longed to leap, with Jean in his arms; he could bear this stalemate of civility no longer. He only wished she would say something, anything; shouting, even, would have been a blessing, so long as she was still with him, and sharing her honest feelings.

"Can we talk?" he asked her desperately. "Please, I just want to talk."

He just wanted to hear the sound of her voice, just wanted to hear her tell him that everything would be all right, just wanted her to take him in her arms and hold him close the way she used to do, just wanted to believe, if only for a moment, that they might find their way through this madness together.

"There's nothing to say," she told him, and turned away.

The sight of her stepping back from him, the knowledge that she was withdrawing in more ways than one, the sheer incredulity he felt at her words caused something deep within his chest to shatter like glass.  _Nothing to say?_ There was  _everything_ yet to say, he thought, as they had not once discussed this heavy awful truth that hung between them, as not once had he told her outright how he still loved her, how he wanted more than anything to make this right, how he could not bear to lose her, as she had not once told him plainly her own feelings on the matter. There was so much left to say that he could hardly hear over the cacophony of words rattling around inside his skull, sloshing like little boats borne aloft upon the stormy sea of the whiskey he'd drunk earlier in the evening. There was so much left to say that he could not let her go, and so he reached for her, caught her hip in his hand and turned her easily, drew her closer.

A little gasp escaped her, her hands rising up to press against his chest, caught between their bodies as he held her, his body rejoicing in the warmth of her even while his mind scrambled for something to say, some way to keep her near.

"Please, my darling," he begged her, though he hardly knew what he was asking for.

"Let me go," came her answer, but her hands only smoothed across the plane of his chest, not pushing him away as she should have done.

"I can't," he answered.

They were so  _close,_ his nose brushing against hers, her breath washing over his lips, her body pressed tighter to his by the second, and he could no more have stopped himself from kissing her in that moment than he could have torn the beating heart from his chest. His lips slanted overs and she tilted her head back, accepted him at once, and the great beast of hopefulness roared to life in his chest. This was what he needed, what he'd longed for every day since his wife had returned; just to feel, if only for a moment, as if nothing had changed, as if Jean were still his to hold, to love, to cherish.  _Til death do us part._

He had said those words to Mei Lin once, and the truth that he was only just coming to realize was that death had already parted them. Oh, the pair of them still lived, but they were not the people they had been, before. The old Lucien Blake had died in Changi, and the old Mei Lin had perished on the boat to China. Death had dogged their steps, stolen their friends and their family, turned them into shadows. Whatever Mei Lin had to offer him, it was not life, not hope, not a future. Jean, though; Jean had brought him once more into the light, and he needed her more than he had ever needed anything in his whole life.

His tongue surged into her mouth and her hand wrapped around the back of his neck and together they banished his doubts and his fears. There was love here, and need, and hope, in the press of her lips, the softness of her body molding itself to him. On a quiet night more than a year before Lucien had come to her in the darkness and they had reached an understanding, begun to heal one another's hurts, and as he kissed her now he began to feel as if such benediction was not beyond their grasp. Jean was still here, holding him tight, blessing him with her touch, returning his ardor with her own desperate passion. His heart exulted in his chest, and the bitter sound of his conscience urging him to prudence faded into nothingness.

Eagerly he pressed her back, and she followed where he led, let him ground them both against the wall while his hands traced the shape of her back down to the curve of her bum and her fingers tangled in his hair. She even tasted like hope, her gasping breaths, her soft sighs, her tongue winding against his own giving him reason to believe that they could survive this conflagration unscathed. Jean sucked his bottom lip between her teeth and held it there and he grinned, bright and feral, to see that she could still tease him, want him, need him the way she had done before everything fell apart. Hungry now he tightened his hold on her, lifted her up, and with an ease borne of practice she locked her legs around his waist, her nightdress bunching up around her hips while his hands found their home on her soft pale thighs. Skin like velvet warmed beneath his touch and his heart pounded louder than the bombs that had destroyed his life decades before and a heat like he had never known raced through his veins. The corridor was a dangerous place for such intimacies, even if Charlie was asleep, and the hour was late, and Jean was not his wife, but he  _wanted,_ oh, how he wanted.

His lips found the curve of her neck and her panting breaths fell upon his hair while his right hand traveled the length of her thigh, rediscovering all those little secrets she had shared with him so readily before the truth of their circumstances revealed itself.

"Lucien," she breathed his name, a whispered plea, and though later he would realize why her voice sounded so sorrowful in the moment he could only think that she was hungry for more of him, and continue his progress. A bit of lace and the slide of satin and he was acting on instinct, now, hungry and unable to stop, operating with a sense of purpose as if by touching her, taking her once again he might thrust them both out of this nightmare and into a beautiful morning where they were husband and wife, as they always should have been, and the last few weeks no more than a strange dream to be dismissed over their morning tea.

"Oh, my darling," he groaned against her skin as his fingertips brushed against her soft folds, found her wet and hot and aching for him. This he could do, could bring her pleasure, could touch her, reassure her with his hands and his lips and his fervent tongue that she meant everything to him, that he would be lost without her, but as he started to slip one finger inside her Jean jerked in his arms as if he'd struck her and sank her nails into his neck. Her touch brought him no pleasure, but it was not intended to, for when he yelped and lifted his head to stare at her incredulously he found her eyes full of a heat that had nothing at all to do with lust.

"Let me go," she said again, punctuating her words with her palms pressed to his shoulders, and Lucien acquiesced at once, letting her feet drop to the floor and drawing away while shame and devastation swirled like a maelstrom inside him. His lover was trembling from head to foot, and he nearly dropped to his knees before her, wanting to lift his hands in supplication and beg her forgiveness for having done such a thing, for having dared to touch her in a way that left her so cross instead of mewling with want, for having dared to wound her, this woman who meant more to him than the world itself.

"This is wrong, Lucien," she told him in a quiet, quivering voice. "You know it's wrong. What about Mei Lin?"

His heart sank, and he bowed his head, unable to face her recrimination. She was the best of women, his Jean, and attended devoutly to her faith, and he should have known that she would not consent willingly to this sin, no matter how much her body seemed to yearn for it. That was just one of the many ways in which Jean was stronger, braver,  _better_  than he could ever hope to be, for while he could not find the strength to deny himself the joy he found in her arms, she  _could._

 _This is wrong,_ she'd said, and as she spoke those words she had revealed to him every ounce of pain she felt now that she knew that he belonged to someone else, and not to her, no matter how Lucien had promised to make her his, no matter how close they had come to such joy. That she should feel such grief, such bitter disappointment, such hopelessness on account of his own failings was more than Lucien could bare, and he lifted his head at last, gazed at her pleadingly and reached for her hand.

"What about you?" he asked her softly, wanting to tell her that he could not forget the love he bore her, that he could not turn away from her, that he needed her more than his next breath, but she refused to let him.

With a sharp tug she withdrew from his grasp, wrapped her arms around her waist, and drew herself up to her full height, back straight and her gaze tragic in its iron certainty.

"I'm not your wife, Lucien," she told him grimly. "And I won't be your whore."

With those words echoing loud as gunfire in his mind he watched her turn her back on him and walk resolutely up the stairs, away from his arms, perhaps out of his life, forever.


End file.
